"But do please believe that."
"Very well. If you say so, I must believe it."
She threw herself on the couch near the fire.
"That's better," said Wimsey. "Napoleon or somebody said that you could always turn a tragedy into a comedy, by sittin' down. Perfectly true, isn't it? Let's talk about something ordinary till Miss Phelps comes in. Shall we?"
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Oh, well—that's rather embarrassin'. Books." He waved a vague hand. "What have you been readin' lately?"
"Nothing much."
"Don't know what I should do without books. Fact, I always wonder what people did in the old days. Just think of it. All sorts of bothers goin' on—matrimonial rows and love-affairs—prodigal sons and servants and worries—and no books to turn to."
"People worked with their hands instead."
"Yes—that's frightfully jolly for the people who can do it. I envy them myself. You paint, don't you?"