“Nothing,” said Jean. “My dear, I’m purely destructive. I can see the rot and I’ve made you confess you can see it: but I can’t stop it. . . . If you cared, perhaps I should care. If I cared, perhaps you would. But I can’t swing my propeller, and you can’t swing yours. That’s Fate’s job. The age has produced our crowd—a crowd of wasters, run by a sort of Baal that they’ve set up. The worship of Baal consists in sailing close to the wind. The closer you sail, the better worshipper you are—other things being equal, of course. I mean, you must do it neatly. . . . And as someone’s constantly sailing a point closer than anyone’s ever sailed before, the standard of worship is rising. It’s higher this year, for instance, than it was last. If you want a good example, look at the way we dress. Frankly, can you beat it? . . . Well, why do we do it? Why don’t we turn it down? I’ll tell you. Because the penalty for non-worship is rather worse than death. It’s not ostracism: it’s not even social extinction. _You just become a mug._ And that’s a fate no waster can ever face.” “We could break away,” said Oliver gloomily. “Clear right out, I mean.” “And be bored to death in a week. My dear, we’ve tasted blood. That’s one of the rites. . . . No. Don’t you worry, me lad. We’re tied tight enough. So long as we’ve money to burn——” Oliver gave a short laugh. “Six weeks ago,” he said, “we were worth sixty thousand pounds. I shoved the lot into francs at a hundred and ten. To-morrow my cheque’ll be cleared at sixty-six. . . . There’s another forty thousand quid for the coffers of Baal.” “That’s right,” said Jean. “If you’d lost it instead, we might have had a chance. Necessity knows no law—not even that of Baal. As it is . . .” She swung her legs off the bed and slid to her feet. “As it is, we’re doomed. I’m doomed to disappointment, and you—what are you doomed to?” Oliver closed the window before replying. “I may be wrong,” he said, “but I think you put it too high. It’s perfectly true—we lead a poisonous life. But there’s no reason why, if you care——” “I don’t. I’ve told you so. I’ve nothing to make me.” Pauncefote swallowed. “At least,” he said, “we’ve got the same point of view.” “What you mean is we both see the rot,” said Jean, preparing to fight her way out of her dress. “But I regret it. You only deplore it, you know. You said you were comfortable.” “I said I cared,” said her husband. “And—and so I do.” “Perhaps you’re right,” said Jean, slipping into a dressing-gown. “The trouble is that I don’t. You’re quite all right, you know. I’ve no complaints—either.” She took her seat at the table and began to loosen her hair. “I beg your pardon,” said Pauncefote. “I—I’m very fortunate.”