Her _fiancé_ limped to the fireplace, dabbed at a button, turned, sank into the depths of a sofa and closed his eyes. “What a truly leprous day,” he murmured. “Six fly-blown flats and four houses in five and a half hours. An’ I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of them.” Julia shook back her curls. “That one in Sloane Street wasn’t so bad,” she said. “What, the one with the pitch-pine doors and a bathroom like a priest’s hole?” “They weren’t pitch-pine,” said Julia. “They were maple. Besides, we could easily have them painted. And I don’t like too big a bathroom.” “Neither do I,” said Hubert Challenger. “But I hate not being able to get off the cork mat. Why, I’ve been in more roomy limousines.” “I don’t know what you do in a bathroom,” said Julia, “but I usually bathe. So long as there’s room for a tub . . .” “Ah, that’s the trouble,” said Hubert. “You see, I dry myself too. Sometimes I even go so far as to put on a good-looking vest before bursting once more upon an expectant world.” “Of course, if you want a bathroom like the Albert Hall. . . .” “I don’t,” said Hubert. “That would be too big.” His _fiancée_ choked. “But the Sloane Street appendix isn’t even life-size. Standing in the middle of it, I could bolt the door, lean out of the window, switch on the light, turn on the bath, wash my hands in the basin, and change the bulb—all without moving my feet. Besides, I think two bathrooms ’d earn their keep.” Julia frowned. “The first house we saw had three.” “Yes, and seven floors,” said Hubert. “If it had had a two-way escalator and a couple of non-stop lifts. . . .” Here a servant entered. “Gin and ginger-beer?” said his hostess. “Please.” “Right,” said Julia. “And, Perkins, I’ll have some tea.” “Very good, miss.” As the door closed— “Of course,” said the lady, “you want to force my hand. You want that flat in Hill Street, and that’s that.” “Don’t you believe it,” said her squire. “I’m for peace in our time. If you want The Eighty-nine Steps, you have ’em. If you want a midget wash-house, say the blinkin’ word. After all, we can always cut the cork mat down. I’m only out to——” “You want that flat in Hill Street,” declared Julia. “And you’re out to crab everything else. And I suppose by a process of exhaustion you’ll get your way.” Hubert Challenger sighed. “‘Exhaustion’ is good,” he said wearily. “Never mind. Let me repeat, my lady, that I do not care. I’ve criticized as a third party, purely to facilitate your choice. As a future inhabitant of the kiosk, you can count me out.” “Don’t you take any interest in your own—your own——” “Dunghill?” said Hubert cheerfully. His _fiancée_ stiffened. “To a certain extent. But that extent has been reached.” “Exactly,” observed Miss Willow. “It was reached in Hill Street.”