"Oh, I don't say ... anybody in particular ... and he answers: 'Well, what am I going to do about it?' and you say: 'Well, and your honour, man; what about your honour?' and he says: 'What's my honour got to do with it if my wife's sick of me?' and you say: 'God! But _the other man_ ... aren't you going to break his bones for him?' and he sits and looks at you and says: 'Get up a prize-fight for her?'... God! I give it up. My own son! We don't speak the same language, that's all." He leaned back, his long legs stretched under the table, his tall shambling body disjointed with the effort at a military tautness, a kind of muscular demonstration of what his son's moral attitude ought to be. "Damn it--there was a good deal to be said for duelling." "And to whom do you want Jim to send his seconds? Michelangelo or Klawhammer?" He stared, and echoed her laugh. "Ha! Ha! That's good. Klawhammer! Dirty Jew ... the kind we used to horsewhip... Well, I don't understand the new code." "Why do you want to, Exhibit? Come along. You've got me to look after in the meantime. If you want to be chivalrous, tuck me under your arm and see me back to the hospital." "A prize-fight--get up a prize-fight for her! God--I should understand even that better than lying on the beach smoking a pipe and saying: 'What can a fellow do about it?' _Do_!" Act--act--act! How funny it was, Nona reflected, as she remounted the hospital steps: the people who talked most of acting seldom did more than talk. Her father, for instance, so resolute and purposeful, never discoursed about action, but quietly went about what had to be done. Whereas poor Exhibit, perpetually inconsequent and hesitating, was never tired of formulating the most truculent plans of action for others. "Poor Exhibit indeed--incorrigible amateur!" she thought, understanding how such wordy dilettantism must have bewildered and irritated the young and energetic Pauline, fresh from the buzzing motor works at Exploit. Nona felt a sudden exasperation against Wyant for trying to poison Jim's holiday by absurd insinuations and silly swagger. It was lucky that he had got bored and come back, leaving the poor boy to bask on the sands with his pipe and his philosophy. After all, it was to be supposed that Jim knew what he wanted, and how to take care of it, now he had it. "At all events," Nona concluded, "I'm glad he didn't get hold of mother and bother her with his foolish talk." She shot up in the lift to the white carbolic-breathing passage where, with a heavy whiff of ether, Mrs. Bruss's door opened to receive her. XXVII