"There's nothing wrong with it," she said, "if you like it."
"Never mind whether I like it or not. It's detestable. And the drawing-room?"
She did not answer. I think she was ashamed of herself.
"Even more so, I suppose. And—your boudoir?"
(I've forgotten the boudoir. She hardly ever let any of us go into it. It was pretty awful.)
"I do wish," she said, "you'd leave me alone. What does it matter?"
"Your boudoir," he went on, as if she hadn't said anything, "is, if possible, more detestable than the drawing-room."
"I never said so."
"Precisely. That's my grievance. Why, in Heaven's name, didn't you say so? Why did you tell me that you liked all these abominations?"
"Because they didn't matter."