"About the last thing, Millwood, I should have expected you to do."
"A justifiable comment," he agreed. "I admit I was getting slack. Loafing about in a business like this, and only moving when somebody stopped outside to have a look at the furniture, was enough to make anyone become blassy, as our friends across the water would put it. I showed a card, I did—'Don't hope for the Best: come inside and get It'—but it didn't stimulate matters. Now I'm at the Arsenal. A mechanic at the Arsenal: that's what I am. Getting good money, and earning it. I come back here of an evening, jolly well fagged out, and uncommon pleased with myself. And now there's the chance of you making one of your sarcastic snacks that you're reckoned pretty good at."
"Millwood," frankly, "you have every reason to feel pleased with yourself."
"Thank you, Mary Weston. Wanted to get the idea, you see, that I was doing something useful."
"There are one or two matters I'd like to talk to you about, but, first of all, there's this shop. It's no use to you."
"It's a incubus," confessed Millwood.
"You are trying to get rid of it."
"Anyone can have it as a free gift, if they'll only let me go on living over'ead."
"I'll take it off your hands."