“You can’t expect me to be pleased at the way you’ve treated my rooms,” Michael said.
“Oh, the gas-stove, you mean?”
“It’s not a question of gas-stoves. It’s a question of living on a woman.”
“Who did?”
“You.”
“If I’d had to live on her earnings, I should be very poorly off now,” grumbled Barnes, in an injured voice.
Under Michael’s attack he was regaining his old perkiness.
“At any rate, you must go to-morrow morning,” Michael insisted.
“Don’t I keep on telling you that I’m going? It’s no good for you to nag at me, Fane.”
“And what about the woman?”