"Certainly."
"Your radio's positively shaking the building!"
"Turn it down. I hope you won't mind I'm in here—slightly naked."
"Oh!" I couldn't see her, or she, me. The rooms waited because she had stopped. "Slightly!"
"Barely, if you prefer. Barely nude. Covered in a meager depth with rusty water. Concealed in soapy murk, besides. And, in addition, protected by scum. It's hard water, you know—Croton."
Presently the radio went down and out—a moron throttled in midspiel. "I'll sit in here," she said.
"Any place you like."
"I'll bet! I'll bet if you heard me coming—you'd grab the shower curtain—"
"Flowers for tonight?"
"You certainly have a long, mean memory, Philip Wylie! So that's just what I do bet!" She was approaching. She exclaimed, "What do you mean—soapsuds?"