“I’m afraid it isn’t,” said Pauncefote. His wife’s eyes flashed. “Oliver,” she said, “we’ve never yet had a row—a proper row. But if you’re going to rake up the muck we picked over last night, we shall break our record with a bang. Now listen to me. Women are not like men. They may be as tough as teak, but once in a while they crumple—for half an hour. Something inside gives way. It’s humiliating, but there you are. . . . Well, I crumpled up last night. And you—you saw me. You witnessed my humiliation. Are you going to take advantage of what you saw?” “No,” said Oliver, “I’m not. I’m not that sort of man. But I’ve things to say to you, Jean, that—that don’t concern the Bostocks or—or Pat Lafone.” Jean raised her eyebrows. “It’s only ten now,” she said, “and what’s the matter with this room?” Oliver rose to his feet and pushed back his chair. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. The man’s brain was pounding. Jean’s sentences seemed to reach it by a circuitous route. On arrival they had to be parsed . . . Mechanically he took out his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he continued slowly. “You know what you said last night . . . about being tied tight . . . so long as we’d money——” “One moment,” said Jean coldly, “I don’t seem to have made myself plain. I endeavoured to point out just now that reference to what passed last night would be bad form. And I hinted that I should resent it—most bitterly.” Oliver passed a hand across his forehead. “I know,” he said. “I’m not referring——” “You quoted what you said were my words.” “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. . . .” “Well, please pull yourself together, because I mean what I say. This is a question of honour—between the sexes. I broached certain matters last night which we never should have discussed in a thousand years. You know that as well as I do. I never should have broached them if I hadn’t gone to bits. You’d never have heard me broach them if I hadn’t been your wife.” “I know, I know,” said Pauncefote wearily. “Don’t say it again.” He drew in his breath as one about to make an effort. “Jean.” “Well?” “Supposing . . . all of a sudden . . . we—we became poor . . . You know. Lost all we’d got. . . . Supposing——” He stopped there. His wife was standing before him, with blazing eyes. “I shan’t strike you,” she said, “because that’d be coming down to your level. Besides, you’d probably strike me back. But the impulse is there. . . . I knew you were selfish, of course. And a waster. And other things. But I never knew you were trash. . . . Only trash would discuss the whimper of a maudlin girl.” Pauncefote regarded her steadily. The lash had recovered his nerve.