Mr. Lapwing was saying, from a dim, distant corner of the room: “In those days I was a very serious young man. I took love and marriage very seriously. And when we had been married a couple of years I discovered in myself a vehement desire to be a father: a natural enough desire in a very serious young man. My wife, however, was younger than I: she loved life, the life of the country and the town, of the day and of the night, of games and dances. You see what I mean?” Valentine snapped: “Don’t I! Just like Valerest.” “Exactly. At first,” said Mr. Lapwing, and his face as he slowly paced up and down the dim room would every now and then be quite lost in the shadows. “At first, I indulged her. To tell you the truth, I was very proud of her service at tennis, her handicap at golf. But there are limits.” “There are,” said Valentine. “Valerest is already in training for Wimbledon next year, and I hope a tennis-ball gets up and shingles her eyelashes. And she’s got to 6 at golf. Pretty good for a kid who looks as though she hadn’t enough muscle to play a fast game of ludo. But that’s right about there being limits. There _are_ limits! And I’ve reached them.” “Exactly,” agreed Mr. Lapwing’s dim voice from the distance of the room. “I had reached them too, Valentine. And, I am afraid, I grew to be rather unpleasant in the home--as you, no doubt, are with Valerest. One’s manner, you know, isn’t sometimes the less unpleasant for being in the right.” Valentine said: “I don’t know about pleasant or unpleasant. But a fellow must stick to his guns.” “Guns?” said Mr. Lapwing vaguely. “Were we talking of guns?” “I merely said, sir, that one must stick to one’s guns.” “Of course, yes! Decidedly one must stick to one’s guns. Very proper. Well, Valentine, I too stuck to my guns. Like you, I thought they were good guns. My young wife and I grew to disagree quite violently about her preference for being out-and-about to rearing my children: until one day, after a more than usually fierce and childish argument, she left my house--this house, Valentine--and never came back.” From the shadowy distance Mr. Lapwing was looking thoughtfully at Valentine. But Valentine’s eyes were engaged elsewhere: he was seeing a picture of Valerest stamping out of his house, never to come back. It was, Valentine saw, quite conceivable. He could see it happening. It was just the sort of thing Valerest might do, stamp out of the house and never come back. And the picture grew clearer before Valentine’s eyes, and he stared the picture out. “Well,” he said at last, “that’s the sort of thing that happens. It’s got to happen.” Mr. Lapwing said: “Exactly.” His face was in the shadow. Valentine, fiddling with a cigarette, still staring at the picture in his mind, went on: “I mean, it’s inevitable, isn’t it? A man can’t go on forever living in the same house with a woman who laughs at the--the--well, you know what I mean--at the most sacred things in him. And she’s got a dog.”