By this time she was peering into the corners, from one of which she triumphantly brought forth a mop and pail.
"Oh, I say, I'm not going to let you do that."
"I don't see that you've got any choice in the matter. I'm going to clean up, and if you don't want to be splashed, I'd advise you to clear out."
She went to the spigot and let the water run into the bucket, while she extended her palm in his direction.
"Now some soap please—hand-soap, if you have it. Any soap, if you haven't."
"I've only got this," he said lifting the soap from the dishpan.
"Oh, very well. Now please go and paint." But Markham didn't. He found it more amusing to watch her small hands rubbing the soap into the fiber of the mop.
"If you'll show me I'll be very glad—" he volunteered. But as he came forward, she brought the wet mop out of the bucket with a threatening sweep which splashed him, and set energetically to work about his very toes.
He moved to the door jamb, but she pursued him.
"Outside, please," with relentless scorn. "This is no place for a philosopher."