sensible except Harry,
and he's been rather jerky and unsatisfactory--and all the new ones have
turned out complete failures. When I say they're complete failures, of
course I mean they've bored me. But, of course, it may not have been
their object in life to do anything else."

"Yes."

"Look at Mr. Rathbone--a man like that, tattooed, and collecting old
programmes of theatres. Well, he's as dull as ditchwater, perfectly
stupid and always saying the right thing to the wrong people. Then
Captain Foster, who seemed perfectly harmless and only decorative, turns
out to be really dangerous, and to count. He's in love with Daphne, and
he has got his mother, who is very weak and foolish and sentimental,
round on his side, and Daphne's always going to tea or to lunch there,
and they've utterly spoilt her--at least, her taste in hats has gone all
wrong, and she told me that Mrs. Foster had pink paper shavings in her
drawing-room fireplace, and asked me why I didn't have them too!"

"Really?"

"Yes. And though she's very good, I know it'll end in our having to give
in, and a pretty wedding, and a tiny flat, and utter wretchedness! And
Daphne will get to like old Mrs. Foster better than me, and they'll have
five hundred a year at the most; and even if they aren't really
miserable she'll have to gradually grow suburban, and come up to the
theatre and have to rush off so as to catch the last train back to
Boshan or Doddington or somewhere! I mean if they take a little house
out of town--near Mrs. Foster. However, I'm not going to give in just
yet.... I could understand a slight sacrifice--or even a big one if I
were in love with Captain Foster, but I'm not. I suppose you'll say that
I needn't be, but that isn't the point. The utter absurdity is that all
Daphne wants of him she could see now. No one minds her seeing him. But
why should she break up her life and spoil her future for it? Of course,
_that_ part is _his_ idea. He is so selfish that he isn't satisfied with
the harmless fun they have now, but wants her to live all her life in a
sort of workman's cottage or tenement building just for the sake of the
joy, privilege, and honour of having every meal with him!"

"What a brute!" said Romer mildly.

"Isn't he? And suppose a war broke out, and that darling, handsome boy
perhaps put an end to suddenly by a bullet, or mentioned in despatches,
or something, and promoted--oh, please don't talk to me about it any
more, Romer. I