"Oh, don't be silly. It's no good talking to a woman with only one idea in her head."
"It's a good idea," said Grace serenely.
"Yes, for you."
Grace laughed now, with a wise little giggle of premonition. "Poor Theresa!"
"Go back to your hairdresser. I'm going to do some work."
"My hairdresser is giving a lesson. There's a wretched man who wants to learn the banjo from him. The banjo!"
"I'd rather hear the banjo any day than Phil playing the fiddle. Why do you let him? He'll end his days scratching the thing outside public-houses. He's just the type. And you'll stand on the pavement with a tin mug. Do go home—while you have one!"
"Yes, I must go. I have a class in an hour. Good-bye, darling. You've a lot of new freckles, and you look so well. Have you forgiven Mr. Partiloe?"
"Oh yes, I've forgiven him. He doesn't matter any more."
"What did you think of the Rutherford boy?"