better."

The worst was that she had beaten him on the primary point. He had
asserted that he was not ill. She had asserted that he was. She had been
right; he wrong. He could not deny, even to himself, that he was ill.
Not gravely, only somewhat. But supposing that he was gravely ill!
Supposing that old Plott would agree with all that Veiga had said! It
was conceivable. Misgivings shot through him.

And Eve had him at her sweet mercy. He was helpless. She was easily the
stronger. He perceived then, what many a husband dies without having
perceived, that his wife had a genuine individual existence and volition
of her own, that she was more than his complement, his companion, the
mother of his children.

She lowered her head further and gave him a long, fresh, damp kiss. They
were very intimate, with an intimacy that her enigmatic quality could
not impair. He was annoyed, aggrieved, rebellious, but extremely happy
in a weak sort of way. He hated and loved her, he despised and adored
her, he reprehended and admired her--all at once. What specially
satisfied him was that he had her to himself. The always-impinging
children were not there. He liked this novel solitude of two.

"Darling, where is Charlie staying in Glasgow?"

"Why?"

"I want to write to him."

"Post's gone, my poor child."

"Then I shall telegraph."

"What about?"

"Never mind."

"I shan't tell you the address unless you promise to show me the
telegram. I intend to be master in my own house even if I am dying."

Thus he saw the telegram, which ran: "Father ill in bed what is the
best motor car to buy. Love. Mother." The telegram astounded Mr.
Prohack.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" he cried. Then he laughed. What
else was there to do? What else but the philosopher's laugh was adequate
to the occasion?

While Eve with her own unrivalled hand was preparing the bedroom for the
night, Machin came in with a telegram. Without being asked to do so Eve
showed it to the sufferer: "Tell him to buck up. Eagle six cylinder.
Everything fine here. Charles."

"I think he might have sent his love," said Eve.

Mr. Prohack no longer attempted to fight against the situation, which
was like a net winding itself round him.

CHAPTER VIII

SISSIE'S BUSINESS

I

One evening, ten days later, Mr. Prohack slipped out of his own house as
stealthily as a thief might have slipped into it. He was cured
provisionally. The unseen, unfelt, si