“Not at all. It was an exhortation. The cook will expect it of you. So shall I. You must kindly remember the sink.”
“I take your word for it. Suppose there is? What in the name of fortune has it to do with me?”
“It’s your sink, Madam. Part of your new-found responsibilities. I don’t wish to harrow your susceptibilities, but it might not be kept clean. It is for you to see that it is.”
“You should have told me that afore, Laddie!” warbled Grizel reproachfully. “Nobody never warned me I should have to poke about sinks! And I won’t neither. It’s a waste of skilled labour. Aren’t there lots of sanitary kind of people who make their living by that sort of work? Let’s have one to look after ours!”
“Every morning?”
“Why not? Every evening too, if you like.”
Martin burst into a roar of laughter, and stretched a hand across the table.
“You’re a goose, Grizel; an impracticable little goose. I’m afraid we shall never make a Martha of you.” Then suddenly his face fell, and the caressing touch strengthened into a grasp. “You shouldn’t have to do it,” he cried sharply. “It isn’t fair. You’ve been a miracle of generosity to me, darling, but when it comes to facing the stern realities of life, I wonder if I ought to have let you do it.”
“You couldn’t help yourself,” Grizel said calmly. “I asked you, and you couldn’t for shame say no. Give me back my hand, dear. I want it, to go on eating. I do love having breakfast with you in our very own house, and I must make it last as long as possible, as I shan’t see you again for four whole hours. ... What shall we do after lunch?”
“Er—generally—if I’m in the mood—I go on writing till five o’clock.”