MATTHEW. Strike on principle, then. [_He still looks fixedly at the floor, and Joe stands glaring at him._] JOE. How? MATTHEW. Like the Almighty strikes when He've got a lesson for we to learn, which we won't learn without strikes and tears. Nothin' is of no avail to stop His chastisement if He do think it's goin' to work out His plan for He and we, and that's what I'm wanting of you to do by your wife for her sake more than for yours. Wives must learn to submit. [_Harshly._] It's Divine Providence as 'ave ordered it, and women be miserable, like ivy and trailers of all sorts, if they've no prop to bear 'em up. Beat her once and it'll make a man of you and be a life-long warnin' to she. JOE. But I love her, man! [_Softly._] The very thought of hurting her makes me creep. [_Joe shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head repeatedly._] MATTHEW. Women likes bein' hurt. It's a real fondlin' to 'em at times. [_Joe sits down and folds his arms as he looks humbly at Matthew._] JOE. Lor', I never heard that afore. How can you be sure of that at all? MATTHEW. I've traveled, as you do knaw. I ain't been to Africa for nothin', mate. I've seen a deal o' things, which if I'd happened on afore I courted Jane Ann would have got me through the marriage scrimmage wi' no tiles off of my roof. That's why I'm a warnin' of you afore it's too late. Your woman be worth gettin' i' trim--[_with a sigh_]--for she's--well--she's-- [_Joe's eyes rest on his friend's face and his face suddenly lights up with a smile._] JOE. She's the best sort of woman a man could 'ave for a sweetheart when her moods is off, and it's only lately her 'ave altered so, and I expect it's really all my fault. MATTHEW. Certainly it is; you've never shown master yet, and you must this very night. JOE. [_Coughs nervously._] How? MATTHEW. You must thrash her before it is too late. Have 'e a cane? [_Joe jumps up, twists round his necktie, undoes it, ties it again--marches up and down the little kitchen, and wheels round on Matthew._] JOE. You'm a fair brute, Matthew Trevaskis. MATTHEW. And you'm a coward, Joe Pengilly. [_Matthew clasps his hands round his raised knee and nods at Joe, who sits._] I've given you golden advice, and if only a pal had given it to me years ago I shouldn't be in the place I'm in now, but be master of my own wife and my own chimney-corner. [_Joe puts his hands in his pockets and tilts back his chair as he gazes up at the ceiling as if for inspiration._] JOE. I cain't stomach the idea at all; it's like murderin' a baby, somehow. MATTHEW. Stuff! You needn't lay on too hard to make bruises nor nothin'. [_Joe goes pale and puts his head in his hands for a moment, and he almost whispers._] JOE. Good Lord! Bruises! Why, man, she've got flesh like a flower! [_Matthew suddenly holds out his hand to Joe, who shakes it feebly._] MATTHEW. I almost envies thee, mate. Why, thee's fair daft wi' love still.