"Don't say 'yes' like that. Say it as if you meant it."
Toby took a long breath, and shut his eyes.
"Yes, so help me God!" he said, very loud.
"That's better. Well, Toby, I want you—I really want you—to have a real profession. What is the use of your being secretary to your cousin? I don't believe you could say the names of the men in the Cabinet, and, as you once told me yourself, all you ever do there is to play stump-cricket in the secretary's room."
"You should have warned me that whatever I said would be used against me," said the injured Toby. "But I saw after the flowers in Hyde Park last year."
"The work of a life-time," said Lily. "I wonder they don't offer you a peerage."
"You see, I'm not a brewer," said Toby.
"Beer, beerage—a very poor joke, Toby."
"Very poor, and who made it? Besides, I think you are being sarcastic about the flowers in Hyde Park. If there's one thing I hate," said Toby violently, "it is cheap sarcasm."
"Who wouldn't be sarcastic when a great tousle-headed, able-bodied, freckle-faced scion of the aristocracy tells one that he is employed—employed, mark you—in looking after the flowers in Hyde Park?" asked Lily, with some warmth. "Why, you didn't even water them!"