‘Well, well,’ said Mr Bethany, ‘every man for himself, Lawford; it’s the only way. But what’s going to be done? We must be cautious; must think of—of the others?’ ‘Oh, that,’ said Lawford; ‘she’s going to squeeze me out.’ ‘You’ve—squabbled? Oh, but my dear, honest old, _honest_ old idiot, there are scores of families here in this parish, within a stone’s throw, that squabble, wrangle, all but politely tear each other’s eyes out, every day of their earthly lives. It’s perfectly natural. Where should we poor old busybodies be else. Peace on earth we bring, and it’s mainly between husband and wife.’ ‘Yes,’ said Lawford, ‘but you see, this was not our earthly life. It was between _us_.’ ‘Listen, listen to the dear mystic!’ exclaimed the old creature scoffingly. ‘What depths we’re touching. Here’s the first serious break of his lifetime, and he’s gone stark staring transcendental. Ah well.’ He paused and glanced quickly about him, with his curious bird-like poise of head. ‘But you’re not alone here?’ he inquired suddenly; ‘not absolutely alone?’ ‘Yes,’ said Lawford. ‘But there’s plenty to think about—and read. I haven’t thought or read for years.’ ‘No, nor I; after thirty, my dear boy, one merely annotates, and the book’s called Life. Bless me, his solemn old voice is grinding epigrams out of even this poor old parochial barrel-organ. You don’t suppose, you cannot be supposing you are the only serious person in the world? What’s more, it’s only skin deep.’ Lawford smiled. ‘Skin deep. But think quietly over it; you’ll see I’m done.’ ‘Come here,’ said Mr Bethany. ‘Where’s the whiskey, where’s the cigars? You shall smoke and drink, and I’ll watch. If it weren’t for a pitiful old stomach, I’d join you. Come on!’ He led the way into the dining-room. He looked sparer, more wizened and sinewy than ever as he stooped to open the sideboard. ‘Where on earth do they keep everything?’ he was muttering to himself. Lawford put the candlestick down on the table. ‘There’s only one thing,’ he said, watching his visitor’s rummaging; ‘what precisely do you think they will do with me?’ ‘Look here, Lawford,’ snapped Mr Bethany; ‘I’ve come round here, hooting through your letter-box, to talk sense, not sentiment. Why has your wife deserted you? Without a servant, without a single—It’s perfectly monstrous.’ ‘On my word of honour, I prefer it so. I couldn’t have gone on. Alone I all but forget this—this lupus. Every turn of her little finger reminded me of it. We are all of us alone, whether we know it or not; you said so yourself. And it’s better to realize it stark and unconfused. Besides, you have no idea what—what odd things.... There may be; there _is_ something on the other side. I’ll win through to that.’