“Imagination!”
“If only it were!”
“Imagination,” he repeated, fixing a steady eye on the short train of her black brocaded robe that all but brushed his feet.
“If that’s your explanation for continuous broken sleep ...” she gently snapped.
“Try mescal.”
“I’m trying Dr Fritz Millar’s treatment,” the lady stated, desiring to deal a slight scratch to his masculine amour propre.
“Millar’s an Ass.”
“I don’t agree at all!” she incisively returned, smiling covertly at his touch of pique.
“What is it?”
“Oh it’s horrid. You first of all lie down; and then you drink cold water in the sun.”