“The worst of it is,” he said. “I have got a miserable carelessness, a contempt for things. You know I had such a faculty for reverence. I always believed in things.” “I know you did,” she smiled. “You were so humbly-minded—too humbly-minded, I always considered. You always thought things had a deep religious meaning, somewhere hidden, and you reverenced them. Is it different now?” “You know me very well,” he laughed. “What is there left for me to believe in, if not in myself?” “You have to live for your wife and children,” she said with firmness. “Meg has plenty to secure her and the children as long as they live,” he said, smiling. “So I don’t know that I’m essential.” “But you are,” she replied. “You are necessary as a father and a husband, if not as a provider.” “I think,” said he, “marriage is more of a duel than a duet. One party wins and takes the other captive, slave, servant—what you like. It is so, more or less.” “Well?” said Lettie. “Well!” he answered. “Meg is not like you. She wants me, part of me, so she’d kill me rather than let me go loose.” “Oh, no!” said Lettie, emphatically. “You know nothing about it,” he said quietly. “In the marital duel Meg is winning. The woman generally does; she has the children on her side. I can’t give her any of the real part of me, the vital part that she wants—I can’t, any more than you could give kisses to a stranger. And I feel that I’m losing—and don’t care.” “No,” she said, “you are getting morbid.” He put the cigarette between his lips, drew a deep breath, then slowly sent the smoke down his nostrils. “No,” he said. “Look here!” she said. “Let me sing to you, shall I, and make you cheerful again?” She sang from Wagner. It was the music of resignation and despair. She had not thought of it. All the time he listened he was thinking. The music stimulated his thoughts and illuminated the trend of his brooding. All the time he sat looking at her his eyes were dark with his thoughts. She finished the “Star of Eve” from Tannhäuser and came over to him. “Why are you so sad to-night, when it is my birthday?” she asked plaintively. “Am I slow?” he replied. “I am sorry.” “What is the matter?” she said, sinking onto the small sofa near to him. “Nothing!” he replied—“You are looking very beautiful.” “There, I wanted you to say that! You ought to be quite gay, you know, when I am so smart to-night.” “Nay,” he said, “I know I ought. But the to-morrow seems to have fallen in love with me. I can’t get out of its lean arms.” “Why!” she said. “To-morrow’s arms are not lean. They are white, like mine.” She lifted her arms and looked at them, smiling. “How do you know?” he asked, pertinently. “Oh, of course they are,” was her light answer. He laughed, brief and sceptical. “No!” he said. “It came when the children kissed us.” “What?” she asked.