There had been one swallow, of course, six months ago . . . one swallow. . . .
Blanche lay back in her chair and achieved and then stifled a yawn.
“I seem to remember,” she said, “that the first day we struck the nuggets, you weren’t particularly anxious to pick any up.”
“I confess it,” said Titus. “It seemed such nerve, somehow. But now I’ve got my hand in, it’s as easy as wink. I’ve done some lovely chambers,” he added musingly. “I shouldn’t wonder if they became historical.”
Blanche would not have been human if she had not succumbed to such gratuitous good-humour.
She clapped her hands to her face and began to shake with laughter.
“Titus,” she said, bubbling, “when you get all wistful and dreamy about the heritage we’re creating for posterity, I could weep for pure joy. It’s like a lion getting all worked up about the view from his lair. Of course, you’re nothing but a great big child who’s been given a nice new game. But I do wish you’d tire of it, dear. Don’t you think you’ve made enough history?”
“Not yet,” said Titus slowly. “But I’ve got a fruity idea. You go away for a bit. Take a fortnight off, while I carry on the good work. Go to Paris with Madge an’ take an easy.”
“And leave you here?”
“Why not? I’ve got my box of bricks. But I can’t have you ill, my lady. Therefore be wise. Take a fortnight out of the shambles, and you’ll come back thirsting for blood.”