“Shall we, really?” returned Eugene, indolently surprised. “You don’t say so!”
“I mean to pay him, Eugene, for my part,” said Mortimer, in a slightly injured tone.
“Ah! I mean to pay him too,” retorted Eugene. “But then I mean so much that I—that I don’t mean.”
“Don’t mean?”
“So much that I only mean and shall always only mean and nothing more, my dear Mortimer. It’s the same thing.”
His friend, lying back in his easy chair, watched him lying back in his easy chair, as he stretched out his legs on the hearthrug, and said, with the amused look that Eugene Wrayburn could always awaken in him without seeming to try or care:
“Anyhow, your vagaries have increased the bill.”
“Calls the domestic virtues vagaries!” exclaimed Eugene, raising his eyes to the ceiling.
“This very complete little kitchen of ours,” said Mortimer, “in which nothing will ever be cooked—”
“My dear, dear Mortimer,” returned his friend, lazily lifting his head a little to look at him, “how often have I pointed out to you that its moral influence is the important thing?”
“Its moral influence on this fellow!” exclaimed Lightwood, laughing.
“Do me the favour,” said Eugene, getting out of his chair with much gravity, “to come and inspect that feature of our establishment which