"Some of them--perhaps. But you don't know; you aren't married. A girl never really knows a man--knows him, I mean, for what he is underneath the veneer of social pretences until she has lived with him. Then little things peep out, selfishnesses--like ugly excrescences upon the smooth surfaces you fancied were rather fine and noble. A man when he is a lover is all chivalrous gentleness. Well, the chivalry is mostly veneer. Jim always gives up his seat in a tram to a woman; when he is in his own home, you may have noticed, he takes the most comfortable chair. They have to relax sometimes, you see; it isn't possible to live up to that level always. I'd rather a man were a bear outside the home and considerate in it. There are such men, I suppose, but I haven't met them." "There are such men," Esme repeated, and thought of Hallam's lack of social manner. She wondered whether the gentleness which she knew to be in him would manifest itself in the home. She could not imagine him behaving altogether selfishly towards any one for whom he cared. "Husbands want training, like children," Rose went on. "I didn't train my man; I began by spoiling him. That's where most girls make a mistake. Then, when the babies come, the spoiling ceases generally. But the harm is done. I have often observed that the husbands of selfish women are a long way the nicest. Men like peace; they will sacrifice a great deal in order to get it." "It is rather an agreeable thing," Esme said, reflecting that a little more of it in her sister's household would make life pleasanter. "I dare say it is; but it can't be had on an insufficient income. If you like peace so much, why do you take the children with you on your holiday? You won't get peace where they are." "Oh! we'll get along. We shall be out all day, and there will be other children for them to play with. They won't worry me." "It's nice of you to be bothered with them," Rose said. She scrutinised her sister closely, and, curiosity getting the upper hand, asked bluntly: "Where is Paul Hallam now?" "On the Karroo," Esme answered, surprised. "Why?" "I didn't know. I thought perhaps you might meet at the Zuurberg." "No. He left there long ago." "Well, but he might have felt it worth his while to go back when you were there. I don't understand that affair, Esme. I don't trust the man. My dear, I don't trust him. And you are wearing yourself out, thinking of him. You are losing your vitality. You aren't as pretty as you were. No." She surveyed the girl fixedly with adversely criticising eyes. "You are _not_ so pretty." This came as a shock to Esme. She wanted to look in the glass over the mantelpiece; but her sense of dignity and the fitness of things kept her glued to her seat. What, after all, did it matter if her looks departed? There was no one to note these things nor feel distressed on their account.