"
Howard laughed.
"You're in an awful huff, Victor, with the British press, that's
clear!"
I laughed too.
"Yes I am, I admit it, and all this leads up to the question I came
to ask you this afternoon. Will you come over to Paris with me? I am
going."
I got up and leant against the mantel-piece, pushing a place clear
for my elbow on it between a bottle of liqueur and a copy of "The
Holy Grail."
"You're great at springing mines upon one. Paris? why Paris? And how
can you tear yourself away from Lucia?"
"I wish you would not pronounce that word as if it rhymed with
Fuchsia," I said.
"Well, how do you want me to pronounce it?"
"You know quite well its Lu-chee-ah, and the accent is on the middle
syllable, not the first."
"Oh, all right: Lu-CHEE-ah. Ah! what a mouthful! I would rather say
Miss Grant!"
"It might be as well if you did," I said, coldly.
Howard looked at me and opened his eyes.
"You are uncommonly sticky to-day," he said, kicking a very old
slipper off his swinging foot and catching it on the toe again.
"Well, what about Paris? Let's hear."
"I am so sick of this rotten, wishy-washy England. They won't take
my things as they stand, and I'm not going to write 'Tales of my
First Feeding Bottle' to please them. So I'm going over to Paris. I
shall turn my MSS. into French and publish them there.
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