He thought he was happy. She was very loving, very cheerful, inordinately devoted. There was a sort of joy in coming back to a home of his own after a day’s futile search for something to do, no matter if the home were a furnished flat daily growing dirtier and dustier. He enjoyed the bright welcome and her soothing interest in his adventures. She always agreed with him, always approved of what he did. Her condition touched him, too. He felt that she had given up everything for him, had sacrificed herself with a splendid ardour. He believed that he should, and did, admire all this, that there was something noble in that greedy violence, that reckless seizure of what she desired. She had been aware of the great advantage she had obtained from not being married. It made her more pathetic, more helpless. He had suggested it more than once, but she only cried and said she was ashamed. “I know you despise me,” she insisted. “But, dearest, I don’t! I _honour_ you!” he always answered. At last she tearfully confided her “secret” to him, and agreed to be married at once. She pretended to be glad, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t enough imagination to love an unseen child, and she certainly had no desire for one as a matter of principle. No more than an animal. And, like an animal, she was sure to love it when it came. Except for the fact that it gave her a hold on Lionel, she looked upon the whole affair as a bother and an expense. His delight seemed to her more or less absurd. He really was delighted; really happy for the time being. He was lost in an utter and gross satisfaction. CHAPTER THIRTY I Julie consented to go out with Horace one Sunday to see the young couple, although she was something more than reluctant. She was conscious of being an irreproachable woman and wife, so that when she wanted Lionel for herself, it was in a perfectly respectable way. She really _needed_ him. Horace was forty, stout, and what this daughter of a “Cattle King” amazingly called “bourgeois.” As a husband he had advantages, such as money and complaisance and inferiority, but as a playmate, he wouldn’t do at all. Lionel was required for sweetness and light. She had always enjoyed quarrelling with him. She had liked to humiliate him, because she had secretly looked upon him as a superior being. She was disgusted with him for marrying. She sat back in the limousine and talked petulantly about it to Horace. She had, of course, made the best of herself, looked her very loveliest, to make Lionel discontented and his wife miserable if possible. She was in white, a white serge frock and a small white toque from which floated a long wine-red veil. It gave her a sort of Oriental look, with her dark skin and immense, brilliant eyes. She knew Lionel would appreciate the effect. “What’s the creature like?” she asked. “Not pretty,” said Horace. “Dowdy, quiet little thing.”