“Disgusting old woman,” said he.
“True,” said I. “None should have passions but the young and the beautiful. What are you going to do? Serve with Leah seven years in the hope of getting Rachel in the end?”
“Don’t be filthy,” said he. “There will be a row about this, I’m afraid.”
“Very likely,” said I. “But that is your affair.”
“Not altogether,” said Lathom. “You see, she thinks it was you.”
“Me?” I was considerably taken aback.
“Yes. You see, I had your dressing-gown—”
“So I observe.”
“She recognised the feel—the quilting, you know—damn it all, she rubbed her ugly face in it—”
“Really,” I said, “the kittenish old creature.”
All the same, I was not pleased. Gestures which delight in the right person are so indecent when performed by the wrong. In fact, it is only when we contemplate the loves of unpleasant people that we see the indecency of passion. It is disgusting to think of the amorous transports of, let us say, Mr. Pecksniff. Grotesque characters only exist for us from the waist upwards.
“I suppose,” I went on, “it didn’t occur to you to mention that you were not me?”
“I didn’t say anything. I got away. I didn’t want to make a noise. In fact …”