Charles grimaced gallantly but derisively. He was leaning one elbow on the table, and now he caught the flesh above his nose and pinched it with his thumb and forefinger as if to still a hurt. "Yes," he agreed with light absence. "By Jove, I know it! Every time I see poor old Jack Wilson it reminds me of how capable she is." Catherine agreed to be amused, though her mouth was severe. "Ridicule is an easy way out of difficulty, Charles." "Difficulty? Is it? Damn me, I wish it was!" He pushed his plate aside and pressed the fingers of both hands against his lowered brow. Catherine, determinedly complacent, tapped her foot under the table and ate daintily. The nervous frown reasserted itself and she smoothed it away with an effort. Charles lifted his head, as with a sudden sweetly-depressing resolution. "So you're going away. When?" Catherine was diligently attentive to her food. "Perhaps I may not be able to go. I have so many important things--" She hesitated. Charles rose, as if imperatively desirous of physical expression. He halted a moment by the table. Catherine had no name for his saccharine melancholy, but she detested it. "I haven't been such a hell of a husband, have I, Kate?" Ridiculous, she thought. She saw his mouth twitch. She was afraid. He touched her hair and she bore it. "Things might have been worse for you, Kate." She sensed in his pity for her a phase of the pity for himself which supplied the excuse for all his shortcomings. "You'll muss my hair, Charles. I think life has treated me very well indeed--both of us, I should say." "We men are a rough lot, but we mean well. Time for me to get down to the dirty world of commerce." His hand dropped away from her. He took out his watch. White feet--he was tired. Catherine did not glance up as he went out. She was hostile toward his disappearing back that was invisible to her. She laid her knife and fork very precisely on her plate. When she spoke to the servant who came to clear away the dishes, her manner, though kind, was peculiarly severe. * * * * * Charles had long ago definitely decided, though on no more than circumstantial evidence, that Julia had no life with her husband, and now he wanted her to the point of divorcing Catherine. Of course he had as yet said nothing decisive to either Julia or his wife. Until he was prepared to act it seemed to him unnecessary to speak. It was night. He was in his room alone. Without removing his clothes he threw himself on the bed, soiling the handsome counterpane with his polished shoes. Mentally he reviewed the histories of those of his friends who had taken some such steps as he was contemplating. The more he thought about the domestic upheavals which he had noted from a safe distance, the more it was borne in upon him that, no matter how great his desire to avoid causing suffering, the moment he began to act positively, suffering for others would result from anything that he did.