“I’ve supported her for seventeen years. Why shouldn’t she support herself for a change?” “She can’t.” “Let her try.” Of course there were many things I might have answered to this. I might have spoken of the economic position of woman, of the contract, tacit and overt, which a man accepts by his marriage, and of much else; but I felt that there was only one point which really signified. “Don’t you care for her any more?” “Not a bit,” he replied. The matter was immensely serious for all the parties concerned, but there was in the manner of his answer such a cheerful effrontery that I had to bite my lips in order not to laugh. I reminded myself that his behaviour was abominable. I worked myself up into a state of moral indignation. “Damn it all, there are your children to think of. They’ve never done you any harm. They didn’t ask to be brought into the world. If you chuck everything like this, they’ll be thrown on the streets. “They’ve had a good many years of comfort. It’s much more than the majority of children have. Besides, somebody will look after them. When it comes to the point, the MacAndrews will pay for their schooling.” “But aren’t you fond of them? They’re such awfully nice kids. Do you mean to say you don’t want to have anything more to do with them?” “I liked them all right when they were kids, but now they’re growing up I haven’t got any particular feeling for them.” “It’s just inhuman.” “I dare say.” “You don’t seem in the least ashamed.” “I’m not.” I tried another tack. “Everyone will think you a perfect swine.” “Let them.” “Won’t it mean anything to you to know that people loathe and despise you?” “No.” His brief answer was so scornful that it made my question, natural though it was, seem absurd. I reflected for a minute or two. “I wonder if one can live quite comfortably when one’s conscious of the disapproval of one’s fellows? Are you sure it won’t begin to worry you? Everyone has some sort of a conscience, and sooner or later it will find you out. Supposing your wife died, wouldn’t you be tortured by remorse?” He did not answer, and I waited for some time for him to speak. At last I had to break the silence myself. “What have you to say to that?” “Only that you’re a damned fool.” “At all events, you can be forced to support your wife and children,” I retorted, somewhat piqued. “I suppose the law has some protection to offer them.” “Can the law get blood out of a stone? I haven’t any money. I’ve got about a hundred pounds.” I began to be more puzzled than before. It was true that his hotel pointed to the most straitened circumstances. “What are you going to do when you’ve spent that?” “Earn some.” He was perfectly cool, and his eyes kept that mocking smile which made all I said seem rather foolish. I paused for a little while to consider what I had better say next. But it was he who spoke first.