“You’ve a lot of books,” she said.
“Yes; and I read them.” (As much as to say: “If you had a lot of books you wouldn’t read them.” In other words, a purely gratuitous insult. But she ignored it.)
“Reading Ghosts?” she remarked, taking up the yellow-backed book from the table.
“Re-reading it,” he corrected.
Something erratic and perfectly incomprehensible prompted her next utterance.
“Absolute biological nightmare,” she said casually. (It was something she had once heard George say.)
He looked at her queerly.
“Have you read it?”
“No,” she said, and blushed. She knew his next question would be, “Then how do you know?” so she added: “I once heard somebody say that about it.” She plunged further in sheer desperation. “Don’t you think it’s rather a biological nightmare?” she persisted, with passionate eagerness, as much as to say: “Please don’t make a fool of me. Please let the matter pass this once.”
“I confess,” he replied coldly, “it never appeared to me in that, light.... But, of course ...”