“No thank you, professor. And that’s what I think of you and your cheque. Good morning.”
She turned her back on him again. She took up a shovel. She made for the coalbin.
At that Mr. Murch, who had hitherto said nothing, started across the floor.
“Permit me, Mrs. Derwall. You may not care to sell me so admirable a furnace, but you will, at least, allow me to stoke it this once.”
The offended matron tossed her head.
“By no means, Mr. Murch. I wouldn’t think of letting you soil your poetical hands. Remember your ladies. They pant for you. As for me, I am quite able to look after my own furnace, thank you. I am not a disciple of the Higher Life, you know. I make pies instead of reading poetry. And when it comes to shovelling coal, I dare say I am rather more expert than you are.” With which she emptied her shovel through the furnace door.
“Madam, it pains me to contradict you” remarked the professor, who had kept a critical eye upon this manœuvre. “I am only too well aware that my other offences are gross enough. But Truth and Honour alike compel me to confess that I can shovel coal better than that!”
Mrs. Derwall’s wrath had hitherto maintained lofty heights. But she now began to break down. She betrayed the first signs of a womanly irritation. She snorted contemptuously. “I’d like to see you! I bet you can’t.”
The professor held her eye.
“Do you mean it?” he asked.