Tarlyon and Antony talked about English heavyweight boxers. Antony was himself a super-heavyweight and seemed to have a poor opinion of English heavyweights. He wanted to know whether their weight was calculated by the noise they made on being smitten to the ground in the first round. He said that he was tired of opening a newspaper only to read of the domestic history of Famous British Boxers and of seeing photographs of the wives, mothers and children of Famous British Boxers. He said that the whole idea of the press was to impress on the public how gentle, amiable and loving Famous British Boxers were in the home. He pointed out that the whole trouble lay in the fact that Famous British Boxers were too damned gentle, amiable, and loving in the ring. In fact, Antony, having put the lid on his wife, had woken up. Then, at last, Diavalen rose, and we rose. I rushed to the door and held it open. Her teeth flashed at Tarlyon, and he bowed like a courtier. As she passed Antony, he said, “Good night, Diavalen,” but he said it as though he didn’t care whether her night was good or bad. As she passed Antony she gave him a look out of her large, black eyes. I was glad I did not know what that look said, but I was sure that Antony deserved it. “Good-night, Lady Poole,” I said; teeth flashed at me, a touch of pleasant scent hovered faintly, and Diavalen was gone. “Heavens, she’s lovely!” I whispered, as I joined them at the table. Tarlyon’s fingers played with the stem of his port-glass. “Would you mind explaining, Antony,” he asked dangerously, “why you chose that infamous way of telling us that your wife was--well, not quite like the rest of us?” There was, I agreed, something blasphemous about the ghastly word “dumb” in relation to that lovely creature. Red Antony leant back in his chair and dug his hands deep in his pockets, so that his white shirt-front stuck out like the breast-plate of a warrior. He looked bored.