In short, he was to be the lord and master, and she the humble slave. Thank you. Or at the very best, she was to be a sort of domestic Mrs Gladstone, the Mrs Gladstone of that old chestnut--who, when a female friend was lamenting over the terrible state of affairs, in Ireland or somewhere, and winding up her lament with: “Terrible, terrible. But there is One above”--replied: “Yes, he’s just changing his socks. He’ll be down in a minute.” Mr Lovat was to be the One above, and she was to be happy downstairs thinking that this lord, this master, this Hermes _cum_ Dionysus wonder, was comfortably changing his socks. Thank you again. The man was mad. Yet he stuck to his guns. She was to submit to the mystic man and male in him, with reverence, and even a little awe, like a woman before the altar of the great Hermes. She might remember that he _was_ only human, that he had to change his socks if he got his feet wet, and that he would make a fool of himself nine times out of ten. But--and the but was emphatic as a thunderbolt--there was in him also the mystery and lordship of--of Hermes, if you like--but the mystery and the lordship of the forward-seeking male. That she must emphatically realise and bow down to. Yes, bow down to. You can’t have two masters of one ship: neither can you have a ship without a master. The _Harriet and Lovat_ had been an experiment of ten years’ endurance. Now she was to be broken up, or burnt, so he said, and the non-existent _Hermes_ was to take her place. You can’t have two masters to one ship. And if it _is_ a ship: that is, if it has a voyage to sail, a port to make, even a far direction to take, into the unknown, then a master it must have. Harriet said it wasn’t a ship, it was a houseboat, and they could lie so perfectly here by the Pacific for the rest of time--or be towed away to some other lovely spot to house in. She could imagine no fairer existence. It was a houseboat. But he with his no, no, he almost drove her mad. The bark of their marriage was a ship that must sail into uncharted seas, and he must be the master, and she must be the crew, sworn on. She was to believe in his adventure and deliver herself over to it; she was to believe in his mystic vision of a land beyond this charted world, where new life rose again. And she just couldn’t. His land beyond the land men knew, where men were more than they are now: she couldn’t believe in it. “Then believe in _me_,” he said desperately. “I know you too well,” she replied. And so, it was an impasse.