"Have you ever tried it?" said Miss Tarlton.
"Certainly," said Wentworth. "In London in the winter, when it is foggy, you know."
"Oh," said Miss Tarlton, again with unflinching gravity. "I don't think you quite understand what I mean. I mean in a photographic dark room, developing, you know."
"I see," said Wentworth. "When I am in a dark room in the winter I generally develop theories."
"Develop what?" said Miss Tarlton.
"Theories, about smuts and smoke, you know; things people write to the papers about in the winter," said Wentworth, whose idea of conversation was to endeavour to coruscate the whole time. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, if the spark was less powerful on some occasions than on others.
"Oh," said Miss Tarlton, not in the least entertained.
Wentworth, a little discomfited, could for once think of nothing to say.
"I suppose," said Miss Tarlton, still patiently pursuing her investigations in the same hopeless quarter, "you don't know the name of that quite, quite new and tiny machine?"
"Machine? What sort of machine?" said Wentworth.