Jean Ludlow Pauncefote did not reply. For a moment she stood staring at her reflection in the tall pier-glass. Then she slid slowly out of her striking cloak, threw this across a chair, lighted a cigarette, and flung herself upon the bed. “What did you think,” she demanded, “that marriage was going to be like?” Her husband lowered his letter in some surprise. “My dear,” he said, “it is now a quarter of three, and two bottles of ’98 Mumm require sleeping off. If we must search each other’s hearts——” “_In vino veritas_,” said Jean. “Go on.” Oliver put down his letter and took off two coats. Then he bestrode a chair, pulled up his shirt-sleeves, and proceeded to fill a pipe. “Say it again,” he said. “What did you think,” said Jean, “that marriage was going to be like?” Her husband reflected, frowning. At length— “I really don’t know,” he said. “I got a bit rattled once or twice. You know. After bein’ congratulated by some strong, earnest mortal with a pre-war hand. Enough to make anyone suspicious. And I asked one or two coves who’d done it. All they said was that it all depended on the girl. . . . But I’m very happy, Jean. I’ve no complaints. If you ask me, I think we’ve got on damned well. We’ve been married a solid year and we’ve never had a first-class row.” “That,” said Jean, expelling a cloud of smoke, “is because we don’t care.” “Oh, rot,” said Oliver stoutly. He felt for a match. “Rot. At least, I can’t speak for you, but I certainly care.” “Up to a point—yes. So do I. But we don’t mean anything to each other.” “You mean something to me,” protested Pauncefote. “So does your bath before dinner. You’re accustomed to me—that’s all. If you went out to-night, I should wear black for a year. It’s the fashion. But I should be fed to the teeth to think that my green lace dress was going spare. . . . And if I popped off to-morrow, you’d curse the fact that you couldn’t go to Ascot. And you’d soon be putting out feelers to find out whether it’d be decent to show up at Goodwood and saying to yourself, ‘She would have liked me to go.’” “I—I don’t think I should,” faltered Pauncefote. “Why not?” said Jean. “You wouldn’t feel any grief. We don’t mean anything.” Oliver frowned. Then he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded its bowl. “Assuming you’re right,” he said, “—mark you, I don’t admit it—but, assuming you’re right, why is it?” Jean shrugged her shining shoulders. “_C’est la mode_,” she said. “It’s the age, the time—what you will. Married love’s out of fashion—that’s all.” “I loved you before,” said Pauncefote.