“In a way you did,” said Jean, staring upon the cornice. “And I loved you. Then we got married, and it was all over. You ought to count more with me—now.” She sat up there, with a laugh, and waved a small hand. “My dear, you count less. ‘Less’? You don’t count at all—now. We’ve—we’ve pulled our fire-cracker. We pulled it a year ago.” She threw herself back on the pillows, inhaled deeply and let the smoke steal out of her beautiful mouth. “Don’t think I’m getting at you. I’m not at all. I’m just making faces at Fate.” “Why?” “Because I’m disappointed. When one was married I thought one got down to things. I thought one found the emotions that poets write about—love, hope, joy, grief, hate. They’re the foundation of life. I brushed against them all when I was engaged. I imagine you did too—in a sort of way.” Pauncefote shifted upon his chair. “We’re much better out of it,” he said. “Give me a quiet life. Emotion’s all very well, but it’s sticky stuff.” “It isn’t fashionable,” said Jean. “For a very good reason,” said her husband. “It isn’t convenient. We’re just beginning to appreciate the wisdom of eliminating mental inconvenience. Look at Dickens, Thackeray, and the rest. Yarn after yarn founded on human emotion. Sighs and yells and tears because someone’s got stuck. That’s what you get for playing with fire. Now it’s dawning on people that use their brains that if you let sleeping dogs lie you won’t be chewed. An’ so we go quietly along—_without looking for trouble_. Hang it all, Jean, I think we’ve done very well. We don’t get in each other’s way. We——” “We should,” said Jean. “We ought to. That’s my point. Marriage means getting in each other’s way. If you don’t, you might as well not be married. One’s style ought to be cramped. Not necessarily unpleasantly cramped, but cramped. If you were just going to drive and a priceless girl came up and asked you the time—well, she’d ’ve got in your way, but that wouldn’t worry you. In fact, if you could square your partner, you’d sling your driver away and take her into the pine-woods to look for clocks.” “I shouldn’t at all,” said Pauncefote uneasily. “I should direct her to——” “No doubt—if you were playing with me,” said Jean dryly. “Appearances have to be kept up. Never mind. The point is that one’s style can be agreeably cramped. Marriage can cramp it pleasantly or unpleasantly, but it ought to cramp it. Look at us. We aren’t affected at all. We don’t care. If we did, we shouldn’t dare show it. It—it isn’t done. . . . Life’s like ale—good, strong ale. History will show you that. But we don’t get further than the froth. That’s all right when you’re a child, but if you’re not going to get down to the liquor when you’re married, when are you?” “My dear,” said her husband, “why worry? I’ve drunk some damned bad beer.” “Haven’t you drunk any good?” Oliver sighed. “Of course,” he said, “if you’re not happy, Jean——” “I’m not. Neither are you. We don’t know what it means.”