“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry. We can’t. I do you the justice to tell you I’ve never found you a capricious woman before. But it’s plain that this is one of the times when a man has to put his foot down on... on sentimentality and all that sort of thing.”
“Your conscience was troubling you, Rupert.”
“It was, I’ve admitted it. And this letter is my quittance. It washes conscience out. It closes the account.”
“No. You’re still troubled.”
“I’ll be hanged! Do you keep my conscience?”
“I want us to go to Staithley, Rupert.”
“This time, I can’t give you what you want, Mary. I’m going to Staithley alone, for the purpose of cutting Staithley out of my life for ever. I’m sorry about your attitude. I’m completely fogged by it, but I’m not going to talk about it any more. This is the nearest we’ve ever come to quarreling and we’ll get no nearer. I’ll go along for the car now.”
“Just one moment first, though. You say you’re putting your foot down. I have a foot as well as you.”
“I adore your foot, Mary. If I were a sculptor—”