"Out of it!" he exclaimed. "Why, where should I have been without you? You were the beginning of it." "I was indeed. You've got to take care I'm not the end of it, that's all." "What on earth do you mean?" "I mean what I say. You don't want Anne to be in love with you for _my_ sake, do you?" "N--no. I don't know that I do exactly. At least I should prefer that she was in love with me for my own." "Well, you must make her, then. That's why you've got to leave me out of it. I've been too much in it all along. It was through me she conceived that unfortunate idea of your goodness. I'm its father and its mother and its nurse, I ministered to it every hour. I fed it, I brought it up, I brought it _out_, I provided all the opportunity for its display. Nothing else had a show beside your goodness, Wallie dear. It was something monstrous. It took Anne's affection from you and concentrated it all on itself. She worshipped it, she clung to it, she saw nothing else but it, and when it went everything went. _You_ went first of all. Well, you must just see that that doesn't happen again." "You mean that I must lead a life of iniquity?" "You mustn't lead a life of anything." "Do you mean I mustn't be good any more?" Majendie's imagination played hilariously with this fantastic, this preposterous notion of his goodness. "Oh yes, be good," said Edith, "but not too good. Above all, not too good to me. Concentrate on her, stupid." "I have concentrated," he moaned, mystified beyond endurance. "Besides, you said I couldn't make her jealous." "No, I wish you could. I mean, don't let her fall in love with your devotion to me again. Don't hold her by that one rope. Hold her by all your ropes; then, if one goes, it doesn't so much matter." "I see. You don't trust my goodness." "Oh, _I_ trust it, so will she again. But don't _you_ trust it. That precious goodness of yours is your rival. A bad, dangerous rival. You've got to beat it out of the field. Show that you're jealous of it. A little judicious jealousy won't hurt." Edith's eyes were still and profound with wisdom. "I don't believe you've ever yet made love to Anne properly. That's what it all comes to." "Oh, I say," said he, "what do you know about it?" "I'm only judging," said Edith, "by the results." "Oh, that isn't fair." "Perhaps it isn't," she owned, her wisdom growing by what it fed on. "You see, she wouldn't let me do it properly." Edith pondered. "Yes, but how long ago is it? And you've been married since." "What difference does that make?" "I should say it would make all the difference. Anne was a girl, then. She didn't understand. She's a woman now. She does understand. She can be appealed to." He hid his face in his hands. "I never thought of that," he murmured thickly. "Of course you didn't." "Edie," he said, and his face was still hidden, "however did you think of it?"