"It depends if the nutmeg-porters are striking."
"Striking! Good heavens, I never thought about that." I glanced hastily down the headlines of my paper. "Celia, this is serious. I shall have to think about this seriously. Will you order a fire in the library? I shall retire to the library and think this over."
"You can retire to the library, but you can't have a fire there. There's only just enough for the kitchen for two days."
"Then come and chaperon me in the kitchen. Don't leave me alone with Jane. You and I and Jane will assemble round the oven and discuss the matter. B-r-r-r. It's cold."
"Not the kitchen. I'll assemble with you round the electric light somewhere. Come on."
We went into the library and rallied round a wax vesta. It was a terribly cold morning.
"I can't think like this," I said, after fifteen seconds' reflection. "I'm going to the office. There's a fire there, anyway."
"You wouldn't like a nice secretary," said Celia timidly, "or an office-girl, or somebody to lick the stamps?"
"I should never do any work if you came," I said, looking at her thoughtfully. "Do come."
"No, I shall be all right. I've got shopping to do this morning, and I'm going out to lunch, and I can pay some calls afterwards."