When the sisters came back from their drive Harry was sitting on the little marble terrace reading Count Florio and Phillis K. and smoking cigarettes. With almost conjugal unfairness he complained that Valentia always went out just before he arrived. In fact, he had begged her to get the visit over that afternoon, as he intended to be late.

Valentia sat down and began a lively account of "The Angles," but he implored her not to describe those awful people at home, and particularly not to tell him anything about that poisonous Belgian. Then he told Val that blue didn't suit her, and, when she agreed with him, petulantly complained that she had no ideas of her own.

"But I had an idea of my own; only now you say it's wrong."

"So it is. But, even if it is wrong, you should stick to it. You should have more individuality.""What an awful word," she said.

"What's the matter with the word?"

"Nothing. It's so long."

"You're talking nonsense, Valentia."

"Well, why shouldn't I talk nonsense? I'm sure I've heard you say there's nothing so depressing as a woman with no nonsense about her."

"I know. But there needn't be nothing else."

"Harry, are you trying to quarrel? If so I'd better go away."

"Oh, all right! Very well! Do as you like," said Harry. "It seems a curious way to treat a guest: to go out when you expect him, and then the moment you come in to make an excuse to leave him alone again. But please yourself!"

He took up his book and turned away.

Valentia went into the house, to her room, and sat down opposite the looking-glass with a sigh. It was at moments like these that she sometimes thought, with a slight reaction, of Romer. Romer was never capricious, never irritable, never trying. It was true that he rarely answered her except in monosyllables, but yet she knew that he delighted in and tacitly encouraged her fluency. He did not respond to every idea she expressed as Harry did (when Harry was in a good temper), but she knew she had no better audience. His extreme quietness might be admitted, occasionally, to cast a slight gloom, but negatively what enormous advantages his silence had! Romer never scolded, never laid down the law; never thought it necessary to give her long, minute, detailed accounts of his impressions of art, or life, or literature; never insisted on pointing out, as if it were a matter of life and death, precisely where he differed in his opinions of a book, a play, or an incident, from the criticisms in the daily papers. Nor did he refer to some annoying past incident half a dozen times a day as a sealed subject. He had other qualities. He could take tickets, he could sign cheques (and even seemed to like doing it). He could see about things. He wasn't selfish. Yes, Valentia thought, when she saw Harry at his worst, that perhaps she didn't really quite appreciate her husband. How irritating Harry would have been in that capacity!

Daphne came in, and Valentia went on, as usual, with her thoughts aloud.

"Wouldn't Harry be a maddening husband?" she said as she brushed out her hair.

"Oh! Would he? In what way?"

"He'd be so selfish, so obtrusive—he'd always want you to do exactly what he liked, just when he liked, and never when he didn't, or when you liked, I mean.""How could he like you to do what he liked when he didn't like? That would be expecting too much. I don't see what you mean, Val."

"I only mean that when he's in a bad temper Harry's tiresome, and if he were married he'd be in one oftener."

"Oh dear! Are most men bad-tempered when they're married, Val?"

"Yes. Nearly always."

"What? Then, will Cyril ..."

"Cyril's a pleasant, easy-going boy, but, as you won't have enough money, he's sure to be bad-tempered at times."

"Then aren't married men bad-tempered when they have plenty of money, Val?"

"Oh, if they have a great deal they're awfully bad-tempered, too; because, you see, then they lose it, or if they don't do that they're always trying to enjoy themselves with it and finding the enjoyment flat, and then they blame their wives. Besides, anyhow, having enough money leads to all sorts of complications."

"Oh dear! Then what do you advise?" Daphne hung on Valentia's words, respecting her superior knowledge and experience.

"Oh, I advise enough, anyhow. It can't make you happy, but it can avoid certain troubles. Love in a cottage is only all right for the week-end when you have a nice house in London as well, and a season ticket or a motor, and electric light and things, and a telephone. Oh, by the way, our telephone here is eating its head off. We never use it. Go and ring up to the grocer, not to forget to send the things, will you, dear? He's got a telephone, too—the only tradesman in the village who has."

"What things isn't he to forget to send?"

"How should I know?—the usual things. He never does forget, but it looks well to remind him, and the 'phone needs exercise."

"All right. But before I go, Val—suppose you can't have the sort of love-in-a-cottage you mean, and there's no fear of your being so rich that it makes you miserable, what is the best thing to do?"

"Why, I suppose the old business in the old novels, a competence with the man of your heart, would do all right."

Daphne looked pleased.

"For six months, anyhow. Or a year or two, perhaps," Val added.

"Oh dear!" cried Daphne again, as she left the room.

"Poor pet," Val murmured to herself. "I hope I'm not teaching her to be cynical."