“And why should I be overcome with gratitude just because——”
“The golden rule of blessed argument,” said Captain Festival uncertainly, “is to keep to the blessed point. Let’s try, will you? . . . No answer. I referred to my short-sighted generosity solely to refute your suggestion that I was failing to cherish you. You deliberately pervert the reference into an attempt to magnify myself. What could be better?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Katharine. “You could get up half an hour earlier and put your rotten things in order yourself.”
“On the lucus a non lucendo principle? If you want your cake, pay someone else to eat it, and then give it away? Thanks very much. Unhappily, my education was neglected. I cannot sew. Secondly, if it’s either of our jobs, it’s yours. Thirdly, why should I? If this house was more like a home and less like an Employment Exchange, these questions wouldn’t arise. Fourthly, I’m fed up.”
“How funny,” said Katharine silkily. “So’m I. Yet you slept well. I heard you.”
In majestic silence her husband rose from his bed and entered an orange-coloured dressing-gown.
“Have my bed put in the next room, will you?” he said coldly. “If you don’t like to trouble the servants, tell me and I’ll get the commissionaire from the Club.”
Here he trod upon a collar-stud, screamed, swore, limped to a window and then launched the offender into Berkeley Square.
“That’ll learn it,” observed Mrs. Festival.
Giles regarded her with speechless indignation.