“They are all absorbed in their futilities--at least most of them,” he added, correcting himself; “but even when idle they are not beasts. Now this woman you are reading about is a beast.” Wither eyed him curiously. “You are talking nonsense, old chap. If she had been simply that, she would not have been a problem to the psychologist. The enigma was the sudden burst into animalism in the midst of a love that was almost idyllic.” “Bosh!” said Kent. “It was the same old hideous adultery.” “Oh, well! if you go on those lines, I am done,” replied Wither, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought we were a little more advanced in our ideas in this establishment.” “You know I don't mean that,” said Kent, puffing violently at his pipe. “The legality of the connection has nothing to do with it. It is the eternal coupling of the male and the female that revolts me. Pah! They might as well write a novel on the loves of the pastures.” “If I could write French, I should like to try it,” said Wither. “It would be interesting.” “There is too much of that sort of thing written and talked about,” said Kent. “It's sickening. It's degradation of humanity.” “Well, it's not uncommon,” said Wither, with a sphinxlike smile playing round the corners of his mouth as he gazed upwards at the cigarette smoke. “Look here, Wither,” said Kent; “I have a higher faith in humanity. You profess to be a cynic, a man of the world, and you delight in calling yourself nonmoral. That's all foolishness, I know. You are the kindest hearted little chap in the world. But can you, as a man of intellectual tastes, sympathise with all this animalism?” Wither threw away his cigarette, and bending forward laid his hand on Kent's knee.