"That's different. You can go to sleep again. I can't. You rather like
being wakened up, because you take a positively sensual pleasure in
turning over and going to sleep again."

"You hate me for that."

"I do."

"I make you very unhappy sometimes, don't I?"

"Eve, you are a confounded liar, and you know it. You have never caused
me a moment's unhappiness. You may annoy me. You may exasperate me. You
are frequently unspeakable. But you have never made me unhappy. And why?
Because I am one of the few exponents of romantic passion left in this
city. My passion for you transcends my reason. I am a fool, but I am a
magnificent fool. And the greatest miracle of modern times is that after
twenty-four years of marriage you should be able to give me pleasure by
perching your stout body on the arm of my chair as you are doing."

"Arthur, I'm not stout."

"Yes, you are. You're enormous. But hang it, I'm such a morbid fool I
like you enormous."

Mrs. Prohack, smiling mysteriously, remarked in a casual tone, as she
looked at _The Daily Picture_:

"Why _do_ people let their photographs get into the papers? It's awfully
vulgar."