'Do you send everything to the laundry?'

'Well . . . no . . . not quite.' I wanted to explain, to modify, to
speak airily of woollens being 'just rubbed through,' but she hurried
me forward.

'Have you a hot water circulator?'

'No.'

'A gas cooking-range?'

'No.'

It was terrible. I seemed to have nothing. I stood, as it were, naked
to the world, bereft of a single inducement to hold out to the girl.

'Do you dine late?'

At this point, when I longed to answer 'No,' I was compelled to say
'Yes.' That decided her. She rose at once and moved towards the door.
'I'm afraid your situation won't do for me,' she remarked.

That was all she said. She was perfectly dignified about it. Much as
she obviously condemned me, there was no noisy recrimination, no
violent vituperative outburst on her part. I followed in her wake to
the door. Even at the eleventh hour I hoped for a respite. 'Couldn't
something be arranged?' I faltered as my gaze wandered hungrily over
her capable-looking form. 'We might get you a gas-cooker--and all