“Of course you do,” said Jean, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. “More. You care so much that you won’t give yourself away—even to me. Sentiment’s bad form. Besides, you’re self-conscious—awkward. This discussion’s inconvenient. You’d be thankful if I’d drop it. . . . Why don’t you take the plunge? It won’t involve you. Drop the mask for ten minutes and face the rotten facts. . . . If you were a waster by nature I should have saved my breath.” There was a long silence. At length— “What,” said Oliver, “do you suggest?” “Do you admit the evil?” “Yes.” “Ah!” “But it’s in the age,” said Pauncefote. “We’re over-civilized. Money and civilization have emasculated Things. Our crowd’s never up against it. We don’t comfort each other because we don’t need comforting; and gradually we’re losing the art. If you don’t use your arm, it’ll wither away. There’s no ‘stern stuff’ in our lives, and how can you lug it in? For years we’ve all been fightin’ to wash it out—to make Life into a song-an’-dance show; and now we’ve done it. Well, an odd weddin’-chime isn’t going to turn it back into Eden.” He thrust the chair out of his way and began to pace the floor. Jean, smiling lazily, watched him with half-closed eyes. “Once the man hunted—for food; and the woman kept the cave—against his coming. And when he came, she fed him—bathed his wounds—took his head in her lap. And he was her man. . . . And she was his woman. . . . They didn’t want any Service to tell them that. But now the wheel’s swung round to the other extreme. Hardship and peril are out, and luxury’s in. Nature’s been swamped by Art. Emotion’s a branch of Nature, and it’s withered away. . . . If ever the man was late, the woman wept for joy to see him alive. You don’t do that because you assume I’ve stopped somewhere to have a drink.” “Why did I dress to-night to please Pat Lafone?” Oliver hesitated. Then— “Because,” he said sharply, “because you must have a thrill. The man and the woman were thankful to be alive. Between the wolves and the weather their lives were exciting enough. But ours—ours run on greased wheels. We have to devise our excitement. And the easiest, most satisfying way is to rob an orchard.” He stopped still there and flung up his head. “And there’s the honest value of marriage to-day. When you marry you merely add a tree to the common or garden orchard of forbidden fruit.” Propped on a white elbow, his wife regarded him. “Good for you,” she said. “You’ve put it uncommonly well. You see—right down at bottom you feel as I do. I had an idea you did, and I’m rather glad. We may be a couple of wasters, but at least in the security of our own bedroom we’ve the daring to admit the fact.” Oliver opened a window and stood for a moment staring upon the silent dignity of the _Place Vendôme_. “That’s not much to be glad of,” he said slowly. “What d’you suggest we should do?”