The Barrister carefully removed the ash from his cigar. “I won’t labour the point,” he went on with a faint smile. “We have all of us met the type, but I’d like to emphasise the fact that I, at any rate, have never met any member of that type who came within a mile of him. Most of ’em have some semblance of decency about ’em—make some attempt to conceal their affairs. Granger didn’t; he seemed to prefer that they should be known. Sometimes since then I have wondered whether he was actuated by a sort of blind rage—by a mad desire to pierce through the calm, icy contempt of his wife; to make her writhe and suffer, because he realised she was so immeasurably his superior.” He paused thoughtfully. “He made her suffer right enough.” “Did she never try for a divorce?” asked the Soldier. “No, never. We discussed it once—she, and my wife and I; and I had to explain to her our peculiar laws on the subject. His adultery by itself was, of course, not sufficient, and for some reason she flatly refused to consider a mere separation. She wouldn’t face the scandal and publicity for only that. I said to her then: ‘Why not apply for a restitution of conjugal rights. Get your husband to leave the house, and if he doesn’t return in fourteen days——’ “She stopped me with a bitter laugh. “‘It seems rather fatuous,’ she said slowly, ‘getting a lawyer to ask my husband to do what he is only too ready to do—return to me.’ “‘But surely,’ I began, not quite taking her meaning. “‘You see, Bill,’ she answered in a flat, dead voice, ‘my husband is very fond of me—as a stopgap. After most of his episodes he honours me with his attentions for two or three days.’ “That was the devil of it—he didn’t intend to let her divorce him. She formed an excellent hostess for his house, and for the rest there were always _les autres_. And he wanted her, too, because he couldn’t get her, and that made him mad.” The Barrister leant forward, and the firelight flickered on his thin, ascetic face. “Such was the state of affairs when I went to stay. The particular lady at the time who was being honoured by Henry Granger was a shining light in musical comedy—Nelly Jones, shall we call her? It is very far from her real name. If possible, he had been more open over this affair than usual; everyone who knew the Grangers in London knew about it—_everyone_. He had twice dined with her at the same restaurant at which his wife was entertaining, once deliberately selecting the next table.” “What an unmitigated swine!” cried the Ordinary Man. “He was,” agreed the Barrister briefly. “But even that was not sufficient to satisfy the gentleman. He proceeded to do a thing which put him for ever outside the pale. He brought this girl to a reception of his wife’s at his own house.