"Don't come down on me, Nell, again with that eternal Cousin John."
"Phil! I never think of him till you put him into my head. I was thinking of a gentleman who writes——"
"Rubbish, Nell! What have I to do with men that write, or you either? We are none of us of that sort. I do what my set do, and more—for there was this director business; and I should never mind a bit of work that was well paid, like attending Board meetings and so forth, or signing my name to papers."
"What, without reading them, Phil?"
"Don't come over a fellow with your cleverness, Nell! I am not a reader; but I should take good care I knew what was in the papers before I signed them, I can tell you. Eh! you'd like me to slave, to get you luxuries, you little exacting Nell."
"Yes, Phil," she said, "I'd like to think you were working for our living. I should indeed. It seems somehow so much finer—so real a life. And I should work at home."
"A great deal you would work," he said, laughing, "with those scraps of fingers! Let's hear what you would do—bits of little pictures, or impossible things in pincushions, or so forth—and walk out in your most becoming bonnet to force them down some poor shop-keeper's throat?"
"Phil!" she said, "how contemptuous you are of my efforts. But I never thought of either sketches or pincushions. I should work at home to keep the house nice—to look after the servants, and guide the cook, and see that you had nice dinners."
"And warm my slippers by the parlour fire," said Phil. "That's too domestic, Nell, for you and me."
"But we are going to be very domestic, Phil."