"They were tidy enough till you began to throw them about," Ethel pointed out.
"Confounded muck! it's only fit to be burnt," Lewisham remarked to the universe, and pitched one viciously into the corner.
"Well, you tried to write one, anyhow," said Ethel, recalling a certain "Mammoth" packet of note-paper that had come on an evil end before Lewisham found his industrial level. This reminiscence always irritated him exceedingly.
"Eh?" he said sharply.
"You tried to write one," repeated Ethel—a little unwillingly.
"You don't mean me to forget that."
"It's you reminded me."
He stared hostility for a space.
"Well, the things make a beastly litter anyhow, there isn't a tidy corner anywhere in the room. There never is."
"That's just the sort of thing you always say."
"Well—is there?"
"Yes, there is."
"Where?"
Ethel professed not to hear. But a devil had possession of Lewisham for a time. "It isn't as though you had anything else to do," he remarked, wounding dishonourably.
Ethel turned. "If I put those things away," she
