“Here,” said Sir Isaac, flinging open a white door, “is your dressing-room.”
She was chiefly aware of a huge white bath standing on a marble slab under a window of crinkled pink-stained glass, and of a wide space of tiled floor with white fur rugs.
“And here,” he said, opening a panel that was covered by wall paper, “is my door.”
“Yes,” he said to the question in her eyes, “that’s my room. You got this one—for your own. It’s how people do now. People of our position.... There’s no lock.”
He shut the door slowly again and surveyed the splendours he had made with infinite satisfaction.
“All right?” he said, “isn’t it?”... He turned to the pearl for which the casket was made, and slipped an arm about her waist. His arm tightened.
“Got a kiss for me, Elly?” he whispered.
At this moment, a gong almost worthy of Snagsby summoned them to tea. It came booming in to them with a vast officious arrogance that brooked no denial. It made one understand the imperatives of the Last Trump, albeit with a greater dignity.... There was a little awkward pause.
“I’m so dirty and trainy,” she said, disengaging herself from his arm. “And we ought to go to tea.”