"I do," cried Grizel. "Of course. It's my duty. And then I'm furious when you go. Of course again. Any wife is. Do you expect me to be _pleased_?" "It would seem a natural inference.--If you really mean what you say." "I _do_ mean it. I want you to have everything you like; I'm a monster of unselfishness over night, but to sit still in the morning, watching you dressing yourself up, polishing your clubs, starting off grinning from ear to ear, so happy to go off without me, and to feel pleased at the time--no! that's beyond me!" Grizel declared vigorously. "I'm human, my good man. Don't expect me to act like an angel." Bernard Raynor glanced across at his wife and laughed; his slow, complaisant laugh. "You must be a full-blown angel, Cass. What? Never gives _you_ any qualms! Wait a bit, Mrs Beverley, and you'll find it comes easy enough. In another year you'll be thankful to be rid of him. Deadly mistake to hang together all the time! Go your own way, and allow the other to do the same; that's the sure tip for matrimony. Then you jog on contentedly, and avoid spars." The blue, shallow eyes roved round the table, complacently seeking approval; complacently unconscious of the artificiality of the smiles vouchsafed. Cassandra held her head high, disdaining a reply. Grizel hugged a glorious certainty that there would be no "jogging" for her. Storms perchance, half-serious, half-pretence, clearing the atmosphere, and opening the way for a glorious "make up"; but a "jog,"--never! never! Teresa mentally condemned both, and reflected how much more wisely she herself would manage _her_ husband. From the beginning there should be a fair arrangement--so much time for sport, so much for home. One would not want a man pottering round all the time.