“Something absurd—I've forgotten. He writes to her regularly, diary letters, by every mail.”
“Do you tell him what to put into them?”
“Hilda, sometimes—you're positively gross.”
“I daresay, my dear. You didn't come out of a cab, and you never are. I like being gross, I feel nearer to nature then, but I don't say that as an excuse. I like the smell of warm kitchens and the talk of bus-drivers, and bread and herrings for my tea—all the low satisfactions appeal to me. Beer, too, and hand-organs.”
“I don't know when to believe you. He talks about her quite freely, and—and so do I. She is really interesting in her way.”
“And in perspective.”
“Why should you be odiously smart. He and Stephen”—her glance was tentative—“have made it up.”
“Oh?”
“He admits now that Stephen was justified, from his point of view. But of course that is easy enough when you have come off best.”
“Of course.”