“Of course it is. Not in every case, mind you. I’m not boasting. I only happen to know myself. I am a particular sort of man who has discovered that such a life is _the_ life, and that I am capable of living it. I would not recommend it for the million. It is possible, because you are you.” She said, half in a whisper: “You must tell her before I come!” “I will!” “And I shall not come unless she understands, and sympathises, which seems incredible.” Canterton stopped the car and turned in his seat, with one hand resting on the steering-wheel. “If, by any chance, she persists in seeing ugly things, thinking ugly thoughts, then I shall break the social ropes. I don’t want to. But I shall do it, if society, in her person, refuses to see things cleanly.” His voice and presence dominated her. She knew in her heart of hearts that he was in grim earnest, that nothing would shake him, that he would go through to the end. And the woman in her leapt to him with a new exultation, and with a tenderness that rose to match his strength. “Dearest, I—I——” He caught her hands. “There, there, I know! It shan’t be like that. I swear it. I want no wounds, and ugliness, and clamour.” “And Lynette?” “Yes, there is Lynette. Don’t doubt me. I am going to do the rational and best thing. I shall succeed.” * * * * * CHAPTER XLV GERTRUDE CANTERTON CAUSES AN ANTI-CLIMAX “Run along, old lady. Daddy’s going to write three hundred and seventy-nine letters.” “Oh, poor daddy! And are you going to write to Miss Eve?” “Yes.” “Give her my love, and tell her God’s been very nice. I heard Him promise inside me.” “That’s very sensible of God.” Lynette vanished, and Canterton looked across the breakfast-table at his wife, who was submerged beneath the usual flood of letters. She had not been listening—had not heard what Lynette had said. A local anti-suffrage campaign was the passion of the moment. It struck Canterton suddenly, perhaps for the first time in his life, that his wife was a happy woman, thoroughly contented with her discontent. All this fussy altruism, this tumult of affairs, gave her the opportunity of full self-expression. Even her grievances were harmonious, chiming in with her passion for restless activity. Her egoism was utterly lacking in self-criticism. If a kettle can be imagined as enjoying itself when it is boiling over, Gertrude Canterton’s happiness can be understood. “Gertrude, I want to have a talk with you.” “What, James?” “I want to have a talk with you.” She dropped a type-written letter on to her plate, and looked at him with her pale eyes. “What is it?” “Something I want you to know. Shall we wait and turn into the library?” “I’m rushed to death this morning. I have to be at Mrs. Brocklebank’s at ten, and——” “All right. I’ll talk while you finish your breakfast. It won’t take long.”