"Oh, yes," said René, "Linda means she can lose her head without any danger of getting married." The Professor exploded: "I never heard of anything so--so abominable." "But I did mean that," said Linda. "Women do lose their heads, you know, even when they are married. Ask Freda. Don't look so hurt. She and I were talking it over yesterday, and we agreed that the law was so horrid that all I could do was to disregard it. And if René is willing that is what I propose doing. You shall represent the world at large. You do represent its opinion. You know----" "I do not." Linda passed over the interruption: "You are the world at large and I say to you: 'This man is no longer my husband.' No more than that should be necessary. You don't want any more than that, do you, René?" "Even that seems to me a needless statement of fact, but perhaps I'm extreme." The Professor rose and stood with his back to the fireplace: "All this," he said, "is extremely distasteful. You are making a mock of marriage." Said René: "We know more about it than you. We've tried disruption and you haven't. We're both the better for it. The fact is, there is no such thing as marriage. There are marriages, and precious few of them. Yours, no doubt, is one of the few." The Professor was mollified, swallowed the harangue he had prepared, and sat down again. René took Linda to her house in a remote suburb. She said: "You know I quite dreaded meeting you again. I always had a feeling I should. The poor dear Professor was quite disappointed because we didn't make a scene." "Oh, he didn't mind once we made it quite clear that we were casting no shadow of doubt upon the sanctity of his own domestic happiness. They're all like that." "I'm sure he's quite convinced that you have become very wicked. Have you?" "No. Strict monogamist." "What do you mean by that?" "One wife at a time." Linda laughed at him. "You always were uncompromising." Her laughter grated on René. He had a revulsion of feeling against her. She was, he realized, and always had been, cynical. At her gate she held his hand for a long time, and asked him if he would not come and see her again. "I think not," he said. "I wish you would. We might be such friends. And you have become so interesting." "I think not," he repeated. "Any friendship we might have would only be an----" He could not find the word and stopped rather foolishly. He could not move until he had found it. So they stood there hand in hand waiting in a ridiculous and empty silence. "Would be what?" she asked in irritation. He found the word. "An impertinence." She shook his hand from hers almost angrily and walked away. He knew then why he had come to Thrigsby. It was to make a clean cut with her. That achieved, there was nothing more in the grim city of his youth to keep him. VI THE COMFORT OF RELIGION Quoi! Dieu me punirait éternellement de m'être livré à des passions qu'il m'a données?