“The business you're always trying to get your neck broken over—the everlasting politics.”
“It has something to do with p-p-politics.”
Zita threw away her cigarette.
“You are fooling me,” she said. “You are going into some danger or other.”
“I'm going s-s-straight into the infernal regions,” he answered languidly. “D-do you happen to have any friends there you want to send that ivy to? You n-needn't pull it all down, though.”
She had fiercely torn off a handful of the climber from the pillar, and now flung it down with vehement anger.
“You are going into danger,” she repeated; “and you won't even say so honestly! Do you think I am fit for nothing but to be fooled and joked with? You will get yourself hanged one of these days, and never so much as say good-bye. It's always politics and politics—I'm sick of politics!”
“S-so am I,” said the Gadfly, yawning lazily; “and therefore we'll talk about something else—unless you will sing.”
“Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?”
“The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice so well.”