"It's just giving rein to one's feelings," he said, "that is the cause of it. One can't do that sort of thing,--it's not decent. It's like taking too much to drink because one enjoys the sensation of being drugged. We've got to observe the decencies of life; it's a social obligation. Pretty mess we'd make of things, if every one yielded to his impulses." He approached the bed and seated himself on the side of it and stared at his wife with a perturbed expression on his usually good-humoured face. She blinked an eyelid open, and returned his gaze with a kind of one-sided attention, and a drowsy smile that mocked his serious mood. Dickie in the role of moralist was unfamiliar and mildly diverting. "George isn't yielding to his impulses," she said; "he's acting in direct opposition to them." "He's moonstruck over another man's wife," Carruthers returned; "and the other man is moonstruck over somebody else. What's that but encouraging one's fool sentimentalities? Some fellows enjoy messing about, and imagining themselves in love with every fresh face." "The hunter's instinct," she murmured sleepily. Carruthers grunted. "It's abnormal vanity," he replied... "that, and suggestion... Just giving rein to unwholesome thoughts. I suppose, if I wanted to, I could work up that sort of feeling in respect to lots of women." She opened both eyes at this, and regarded him with wide curiosity. Then she laughed. "Silly old duffer!" she said. "I don't think George's influence is good for you. You had better get to bed, and leave off talking nonsense. I want to go to sleep." Carruthers got off the bed and repaired to his dressing-room, there to continue his reflections on the sex problem while he proceeded with the business of undressing. "It's nosing about for the scent of these things," he mused, taking off a shoe, and holding it in his hand with a contemplative eye upon it, as though the sight of this familiar object presented aspects hitherto unobserved. "If a man trains his mind to think along commonsense lines, his feelings don't run amok." He dropped the shoe on to the carpet, and focussed his attention on the pattern of his socks. "Gods! what a muddle it is!" he muttered... "A beastly lot of sentiment,--a beastly uncomfortable time of it,--and then,--reaction. And men go out of their way to tumble into these kind of messes. Hanged if I can understand it!" The following morning he surprised his wife with the inquiry: "Connie, were you ever in love before you met me?" "Lots of times," she answered cheerfully. "How was it you never married one of the crowd?" he asked, a trifle nettled by the unexpectedly frank reply. "Because none of them asked me," she replied with extraordinary candour. "Oh!" he said. He pondered this for a second or so. "I suppose you married me as a sort of substitute?" he added. She gave a little amused laugh. "Guess again," she said. He went to her and put an awkward arm about her neck.