"Yes, and he had a broken pane of glass to let in the cold wind; and that there was a wide gaping fireplace to let down more cold; and that he had got rid of his violoncello; and that his landlord was pressing him horribly----"
"For one pound, eighteen, and sixpence, rent."
"But, Charlie, what is the good of writing uncomfortable stories, that have no pious object? I can understand why Sunday-school tales are dismal."
"My dear May, the public won't have anything but groans and tears. If you can manage yells for them, all the better. Gladiators don't fight now in the arena. Gentle creatures like you, darling, have no chance of voting violent death to a man by holding down your thumbs in the Colosseum. The modern novel is the portable arena of to-day; and gentle darlings like you, May, must be permitted to view the death-agony of men and women, or you would not patronise the libraries."
"Charlie, if you dare to say any more such horrible untruths, I'll go down to the kitchen, put on an apron, and make the pastry for to-morrow."
"If you do that, I'll go down and eat up all the nasty indigestible dough; and then what will you say at the inquest?"
"Take your arm away, sir; I won't stay here another minute. You have, I think, made up your mind to be disagreeable."
"Well, run away now, if you like."
"But you are holding me, and I can't stir."
"And I mean to hold you if you will not sit still while I read the chapter."