"Give me the writing-block," I said shortly, producing my fountain-pen. I turned to Daphne. "What sort of a bath d'you want?"
"Porcelain-enamel, they call it, don't they?" she replied vaguely, subjecting a box of chocolates to a searching cross-examination.
Berry rose to his feet and cleared his throat. Then he sang lustily:
"What of the bath?
The bath was made of porcelain,
Of true ware, of good ware,
The ware that won't come off."
A large cushion sailed into his face. As it fell to the ground, Berry seized it and held it at arm's length.
"Ha," he said rapturously. "A floral tribute. They recognize my talent."
"Not at all," said Jonah. "I only threw that, because the dead cats haven't come."
"Exactly," said I. "We all know you ought to be understudying at the Hoxton Empire, but that's no reason why we should be subjected—"
"Did you notice the remarkable compass of my voice?" said Berry, sinking into a chair.
"I did," said I. "I should box it, if I were you, brother. Bottle it, if you prefer."