"The sentimental impulse" was his mother's favorite phrase. She had used it no less than five times in her article for the "Contemplatory"--which article, astutely boomed by Fancourt, had very nearly created a first-class "stunt." One paragraph of his mother's seemed peculiarly applicable to the barrister's problem. "If," wrote Julia Cavendish, "the Sentimental Impulse--for I will never consent to regard the unlawful attraction between a married woman and a man other than her husband as love, the very essence of which is obedience and self-denial--once comes to be considered a palliation for adultery, then the entire foundations of family life will be in jeopardy." Six months ago Ronnie would have been the first to uphold such a doctrine. Now he could only find the flaw in it. The gospel according to Julia Cavendish--argued her son's mind--amounted to this: If a married woman loves her husband, she merely does her duty. If she doesn't love him, she must do her duty just the same. Obedience, to a man; and denial, of one's own inclinations, constitute the whole duty of woman. In other words: A husband can do no wrong. And at that precise point in his meditations Ronald Cavendish remembered certain rumors--heard and forgotten three years since, on his one leave from the East--about Hector Brunton and a certain red-headed lady of the stage. All the same, even admitting certain modifications--a wife's right to fidelity, for instance,--did not his mother's code form the only possible basis of society? What reasoning human could substitute the sentimental impulse for the existing marriage laws? "Free love" would only mean free license for the unbalanced, the over-sexed, the abnormal, the womanizer, and the nymphomaniac. Matrimonial bolshevism, in fact! "Matrimonial Bolshevism," he remembered, was to have been the title of his mother's next article; but for the moment she had been forced to give up work. Sir Heron Baynet, the specialist called in by Dot Fancourt's puzzled doctor, had implored her--so she told Ronnie--to rest. "I've got to take care of myself," she said. "Sir Heron says I'm not exactly ill, but that I'm disposed to illness." Actually, Sir Heron's words had been far more disturbing; but Julia, who had never consulted a medicine-man in her life, resented the little man's seriousness, and pooh-poohed most of his advice. "Don't worry about me," she went on. "Except for being a little tired, I feel like a two-year-old." Ronnie, obsessed with his own troubles, accepted her version of the interview; and went off to play tennis. Despite all the hair-splitting and all the self-analysis, despite all the resolves never to see Aliette again, and all the attempts to bluff himself lawyer against himself man, the sentimental impulse persisted. And hard physical exercise, he thought, might help to cure that impulse! CHAPTER VI 1