“But after all,” said Rosie, “we are a civ—vilized couple. We don’t want to live in one another’s pockets, do we?” “No, but we’re really no more than strangers,” said Shearwater. “That isn’t right. And it’s my fault. I’ve never tried to get into touch with your life. But you did your best to understand mine ... at the beginning of our marriage.” “Oh, _then—n_!” said Rosie, laughing. “You found out what a little idiot I was.” “Don’t make a joke of it,” said Shearwater. “It isn’t a joke. It’s very serious. I tell you, I’ve come to see how stupid and inconsiderate and un-understanding I’ve been with you. I’ve come to see quite suddenly. The fact is,” he went on with a rush, like an uncorked fountain, “I’ve been seeing a woman recently whom I like very much, and who doesn’t like me.” Speaking of Mrs. Viveash, unconsciously he spoke her language. For Mrs. Viveash people always euphemistically ‘liked’ one another rather a lot, even when it was a case of the most frightful and excruciating passion, the most complete abandonments. “And somehow that’s made me see a lot of things which I’d been blind to before—blind deliberately, I suppose. It’s made me see, among other things, that I’ve really been to blame towards you, Rosie.” Rosie listened with an astonishment which she perfectly disguised. So James was embarking on his little affairs, was he? It seemed incredible, and also, as she looked at her husband’s face—the face behind its bristlingly manly mask of a harassed baby—also rather pathetically absurd. She wondered who it could be. But she displayed no curiosity. She would find out soon enough. “I’m sorry you should have been unhappy about it,” she said. “It’s finished now.” Shearwater made a decided little gesture. “Ah, no!” said Rosie. “You should persevere.” She looked at him, smiling. Shearwater was taken aback by this display of easy detachment. He had imagined the conversation so very differently, as something so serious, so painful and, at the same time, so healing and soothing, that he did not know how to go on. “But I thought,” he said hesitatingly, “that you ... that we ... after this experience ... I would try to get closer to you....” (Oh, it sounded ridiculous!) ... “We might start again, from a different place, so to speak.” “But, _cher ami_,” protested Rosie, with the inflection and in the preferred tongue of Mr. Mercaptan, “you can’t seriously expect us to do the Darby and Joan business, can you? You’re distressing yourself quite unnecessarily on my account. I don’t find you neglect me or anything like it. You have your life—naturally. And I have mine. We don’t get in one another’s way.” “But do you think that’s the ideal sort of married life?” asked Shearwater. “It’s obviously the most civ—vilized,” Rosie answered, laughing. Confronted by Rosie’s civilization, Shearwater felt helpless. “Well, if you don’t want,” he said. “I’d hoped ... I’d thought....”