“Of course, if you want a bathroom like the Albert Hall. . . .”
“I don’t,” said Hubert. “That would be too big.” His fiancée choked. “But the Sloane Street appendix isn’t even life-size. Standing in the middle of it, I could bolt the door, lean out of the window, switch on the light, turn on the bath, wash my hands in the basin, and change the bulb—all without moving my feet. Besides, I think two bathrooms ’d earn their keep.”
Julia frowned.
“The first house we saw had three.”
“Yes, and seven floors,” said Hubert. “If it had had a two-way escalator and a couple of non-stop lifts. . . .”
Here a servant entered.
“Gin and ginger-beer?” said his hostess.
“Please.”
“Right,” said Julia. “And, Perkins, I’ll have some tea.”
“Very good, miss.”