He could not tell her how he regretted old Horace, with what affection and pain he remembered his benefits; couldn’t explain how much this “row” had hurt him. He had been horribly tactless and had wounded and infuriated Horace, without making it clear to him--or to himself--what it was about. If he expected sympathy he was disappointed. If he had only apologised, said he was ashamed and sorry, she would have melted completely; it was this insistence upon the misfortune of having quarrelled with Horace, this cool passing over of his own beastliness, that she couldn’t stand. She didn’t even ask him to sit down, but remained standing herself, looking straight at him. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said, “that I came here like that. Awfully sorry. It wasn’t fair to you. But I didn’t realize what I was doing.” Frances laughed shortly. “Don’t bother to apologise. Why should I object to being alone all night with two drunken beasts----” “I say!” he protested. “It’s evident,” she went on, “that you don’t know at all how I look at that. How I _loathe_ it. I’d rather not talk about it at all. I’d rather you’d go.” “You don’t mean that, Frankie, old girl!” “I do!” He searched her face. “Frankie, you don’t mean ... I see you do, though. Very well, I’ll go.... But, Frankie!... Good-bye!” “Good-bye!” said Frankie. IV Frankie resolved to forget Lionel. She tried her best. “I made a mistake,” she said to herself. “Very well! It’s over and done with now. I’m not going to be a sentimental idiot. It’s _over_!” It wasn’t, though. Her loneliness was bitter, her wound profound; she had nothing to sustain her but her own self-righteousness--cold comfort in that. It was all very well to tell herself Lionel was no good; whether he was or not, she wanted him back. Worst of all was her worry about him. She was convinced that without her he was lost, was helpless--what all women think about their men. She had the loftiest views about women anyway, and their influence. They were ordained the spiritual monitors of men, as well as the natural guardians of their healths and pocketbooks. Woman was the practical one, the conserver, the frequenter of savings banks; she was also the beauty and the charm of life. What remained was Man. Frances had planned a future for them with care; and little by little she fancied she was improving the man himself, making him more responsible, more sedate, more what a woman demands of a husband. She was too intelligent to understand him. She couldn’t manage him and comprehend him as an ignorant, emotional woman would have done. With every new idea, every book read, she had retreated from the position that was her birthright.