"Could you not talk of something else, please?"
Varney laughed. "Certainly, if I must. Only I've been rather generous about this, I think, showing you my hand and giving you the chance to laugh at me. You see, for all I know you may be fifty-two, after all. Or even sixty-two—Oh, glory! Hallelujah!"
"What on earth is the matter?"
"Oh, nothing! Nothing at all! Just I have found a match. That's all!"
"A match! Splendid!" she cried, and her voice suddenly seemed to come from a higher point in the darkness, as though she had risen. "Just one! Oh, we—you must be extremely careful with it."
"The trouble is," he said with exaggerated dejection, "it's pretty wet.
I don't know whether it will strike or not."
"You must make it strike. Oh, it will be—unpardonable—if you don't make it strike!"
"Then I'll throw my soul into the work. I'll concentrate my whole will-power upon it. On the back of this chair here—shall I?"
"All right. I'll concentrate too. Are—you ready?"
"Ready it is," said Varney.