Lady Elizabeth Crecy set down her glass.
“Degeneration,” she announced. “That’s my trouble. I’m degenerate. I worship luxury—silks, furs, perfume, shaded lights, deep carpets, shining bathrooms, electric broughams and the rest.”
Her host pulled his moustache.
“I’ve seen you stick it,” he said. “I remember a day with the Cottesmore when——”
“Perhaps. But all hunts lead up to a bath. If there was no hot water, I should never get up on a horse.”
“Neither would stacks of people: but that doesn’t mean they’re degenerate. Cleanliness may be next to Insanity, but it’s well meant.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“You can get clean with cold water.”
“It ’as been done,” said Pembury. “I’ve done it myself. But you can bet your life it wasn’t my fault. I bathed in a fountain once—one January day.” My lady shuddered. “Exactly. I admit I got clean, but it put me off water for weeks.”
“Perhaps,” said his guest. “The point is, Dick, that you did it, while I——”