“Yes, sir, that’s one swell bed. And a dandy room too. And I been thinking it over, and it don’t seem right that I should have that dandy room and that swell bed, seeing that I came here after you. So what say we exchange?” “Change rooms?” “Yes, sir; you have my swell big front room and I have your poky little back room.” The one fault which undoes diplomatists more than any other is the temptation to be too elaborate. If it had been merely a case of exchanging rooms, as two medieval monarchs, celebrating a truce, might have exchanged chargers and suits of armour, Hash would probably have consented. He would have thought it silly, but he would have done it by way of a gesture indicating his opinion of the world’s excellence this morning and of his desire to show Mr. Twist that he had forgiven him and wished him well. But the way the other put it made it impossible for any man feeling as generous and amiable as he did to become a party to a scheme for turning this charming fellow out of a swell front room and putting him in a poky back one. “Couldn’t do it,” he said. “I cert’nly wish you would.” “No,” said Hash. “No; couldn’t do it.” Chimp sighed and returned to his solitaire. Hash, full of the milk of human kindness, went out into the garden. It had occurred to him that at about this time of day Claire generally took a breather in the open after the rough work of making the beds. She was strolling up and down the gravel path. “Hullo,” she said. “Hullo,” said Hash. “Nice day.” A considerable proportion of the pathos of life comes from the misunderstandings that arise between male and female through the inability of a man with an untrained voice to convey the emotions underlying his words. Hash supposed that he had spoken in a way that would show Claire that he considered her an angel of light and a credit to her sex. If he was slightly more formal than usual, that was because he was feeling embarrassed at the thought of the injustice he had done her at their last meeting. Claire, however, noting the formality--for it was customary with him to couch his morning’s greeting in some such phrase as “Hullo, ugly!” or “What cheer, face!”--attributed it to that growing coldness of which she had recently become aware. Her heart sank. She became provocative. “How’s Mr. Twist this morning?” “Oh, he’s fine.” “Not been quarrelling with him, have you?” “Who, me?” cried Hash, shocked. “Why, him and me is the best of friends!” “Oh?” “We just been having a chat.” “About me?” “No; about the weather and the dog and how well we slept last night.” Claire scraped at the gravel with the toe of her shoe. “Oh! Well, I’ve got to go and wash the dishes,” she said. “Goo’ mornin’.” § 2