“I’m comfortable,” said Pauncefote. “And that’s something.” “Listen. When you die, the tankard of Life is taken away from you. Well, supposing then you found out that the ale you’d always given a miss was the most glorious liquor you’d ever dreamed of . . . Wouldn’t you want to kick yourself?” “Weather permitting,” said Pauncefote, “_ça va sans dire_.” “And, good or bad, don’t you fancy you’d feel a bit cheap beside people who’d drunk their whack?” Oliver pulled his moustache. “Sort of ‘What did you do in the Great War Daddy?’ idea?” “Exactly,” said Jean. “Well, don’t you think wedlock’s the time? It seems the obvious moment for our little crowd. ‘Marry and settle down.’ That’s a time-honoured phrase. ‘Settle down.’ What to?” “Drinkin’ the ale, I suppose.” “I imagine so,” said Jean. “Look at the words of the Service—‘love and cherish.’ I take it they mean something.” “They did when they were written,” said Oliver. “But times have changed, Jean. I’m ready to love an’ cherish, but—but the occasion doesn’t arise.” “What you mean is, it isn’t done. . . . I kiss you, of course, but then I kiss other men. And you kiss other girls. It’s the fashion. We don’t love each other at all; we love ourselves. We don’t cherish each other; we each take blinking good care to look after ourselves. It’s the fashion. . . . It’s the fashion to live together, and so we do. Bar that, we mightn’t be married.” She set her cigarette in a tray, laced her pointed fingers and put them behind her head. “Why am I wearing this frock? Because Pat Lafone said that he loved me in black.” Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Did he really?” he said. “Why shouldn’t he?” said his wife. “There’s nothing wrong in that. What _is_ wrong is that I put it on to please him. You needn’t worry. That’s as far as it’s gone. Besides, he wasn’t there, so I’ve been stung. The point is we mightn’t be married. In theory, I should care for you and nobody else. And you for me—exclusively. In practice, if you discount habit—I’m accustomed to you, you know—you come third on the list. I care first for myself, then other attractive men, finally my husband.” Oliver rose to his feet and laid down his pipe. “That’s pretty straight, any way,” he said. “You know it’s the same with you. The tragedy is we don’t care. . . . If you cleared out and left me, that might bring me up short. I think it probably would. I should come down to Things then—with the hell of a jar. The ale’d be bitter then.” “Jean, why dig up this ground? It’s not particularly sweet. You say you don’t care about me. Well, let it go. I’m sorry you don’t, but——” “Why will you blink the facts? Why can’t you be frank, as I am? I won’t tell anyone.” “I don’t care who you tell, but——”