"Well, darling," said Jack, "I would promise it if I could. But I can't, because, you see, we've burnt our boats. We took the place a fortnight ago."
"How naughty of you!" said his mother. "Then nothing I can say now is of any use?"
"Nothing," he replied tragically. "Too late! Too late!"
"Where is this loathsome shop to be?" Mrs. Harford asked.
"In Motcombe Street," said Jack.
"But that isn't a popular part at all," his mother objected. "Very few strangers pass along there."
"Pat says we don't want them," said Jack. "We shall send out catalogues, and gradually get to be known. Of course we don't mind if someone comes in by chance and buys the first folio; but there'll be no fourpenny box or anything like that at the door. It's a good address, and the rent is low."
"And you've actually taken it?" his mother asked.
"Actually," he replied.