"He never told me what his income is."
"But you know?"
"I dare say Uncle does."
"Better dressed—decidedly more handsome——"
"Well—he is that."
"A bigger income. Rose, do you want Mr. Robinson to be found dead in his shop—horribly dead—among the collars and the handkerchiefs—spoiling them, and—not—looking—handsome—any more?"
"Oh, Mr. Tanqueray!"
"Then don't talk about him."
He turned his face to hers. She put up her hands and drew his head down into the hollow of her breasts that were warm with the sun on them.
"Rose," he said, "if you stroke my hair too much it'll come off, like Joey's. Would you love me if my hair came off?"