“Have you ever had a good sweat?” he asked abruptly.
Her lips curled superciliously. “I’m not given to perspiration, I’m thankful to—”
“Did I say ‘perspire’?” inquired he. “I understood myself to say ‘sweat.’ Have you ever—”
“No.”
“High time you began. Buy yourself the heaviest sweater you can find—you may call it a ‘perspirationer’ if you think the salesman will appreciate your delicacy—and I’ll be around to-morrow and set up a punching-bag for you.”
“What is that?”
“A device which you strike at. The blow forces it against a board and it returns and, unless you dodge nimbly, impinges upon your countenance. In other words, whacks you on the nose. Prizefighters use it.”
“I suppose you want me to be like a prizefighter.”
“The most beautiful pink-and-white skin and the clearest eye I’ve ever seen belonged to a middleweight champion. Yes, I’d like to see you exactly like him in that respect. One hour every day—”
“I simply can’t. I shan’t have time. With the walking I do now I’m busy all the morning and dead tired all the afternoon; and in the evening there is my bridge club—”