He was silent. He heard all she had to say: and he knew that as far as the past went, it was all quite true. He had started off on his fiery courses: always, as she said, to fall back rather the worse for the attempt, on her. She had no use at all for fiery courses and efforts with the world of men. Let all that rubbish go. “Well,” he said. “It’s my need to make these tries, yet. Wait till I’ve exhausted the need, and we’ll have a little place of our own and forget the world, really. I know I can do it. I could almost do it now: and here in Australia. The country appeals to me that way: to lose oneself and have done with this side of life. But wait a bit longer.” “Ah, I suppose I shall have to,” she said recklessly. “You’ll have to go one making a fool of yourself till you’re tired. Wives are _supposed_ to have to take their husbands back a little damaged and repentant from their _love affairs_ with other women. And I’m hanged if it wouldn’t be more fun than this business of seeing you come back once more fooled from your attempts with _men_--the world of men, as you call it. If they _were_ real men I wouldn’t mind. But look at your Jack Callcott. Really, and you’re supposed to have had some experience in life. ‘Clip in, old man!’” She imitated Jack’s voice and manner. “And you stand it all and think it’s wonderful! Nay, men are too foolish for me to understand them; I give them up.” He laughed, realising that most of what she said was true. “You see,” he said, “I have the roots of my life with you. But I want if possible to send out a new shoot in the life of mankind--the effort man makes forever, to grow into new forms.” She looked at him. And somehow she wanted to cry, because he was so silly in refusing to be finally disappointed in his efforts with mankind, and yet his silliness was pathetic, in a way beautiful. But then it _was_ so silly--she wanted to shake him. “Send out a new shoot then. Send it out. You do it in your writing already!” she cried. “But getting yourself mixed up with these impudent little people won’t send any shoots, don’t you think it. They’ll nip you in the bud again, as they always do.” He pondered this also, stubbornly, and knew it was true. But he had set his will on something, and wasn’t going to give way. “I want to do something with living people, somewhere, somehow, while I live on the earth. I write, but I write alone. And I live alone. Without any connection whatever with the rest of men.” “Don’t swank, you don’t live alone. You’ve got _me_ there safe enough, to support you. Don’t swank to me about being alone, because it insults me, you see. I know how much alone you are, with me always there keeping you together.” And again he sulked and swallowed it, and obstinately held out. “None the less,” he retorted, “I do want to do something along with men. I _am_ alone and cut off. As a man among men, I just have no place. I have my life with you, I know: _et preterea nihil_.”