t's wrong with Bernard? Oh!
Laura! Simpleton that you are. . . I'm often frightfully sorry
for Bernard. It has thrown him clean off the rails. One can't
wonder that he's consumed with jealousy."

In the stillness that followed Yvonne occupied herself with her
cigarette. Mrs. Clowes was formidable even to her sister in her
delicately inaccessible dignity.

"Had you any special motive in saying this to me now, Yvonne?"

"This theatre business."

"I don't contemplate running away with Lawrence, if that is what
you mean."

"Wish you would!" confessed Mrs. Bendish frankly. "Then Bernard
could divorce you and you could start fair again. I'm fed up
with Bernard. I'm sorry for him, poor devil, but he never was
much of a joy as a husband, and he's going from bad to worse.
Think I'm blind? Of course he's jealous. High dresses and lace
cuffs aren't the fashion now, Lal."

Her sister slowly turned back the frill from her wrist and
examined the scarlet stain of Bernard's finger-print. "Does it
show so plainly? I hope other people haven't noticed. Bernard
doesn't remember how strong his hands still are."

"Doesn't care, you mean."

"Do you want me quite naked?" said Laura. "Well, doesn't care,
then."

Yvonne was not accustomed to the smart of pity. She winced under
it, and her tongue, an edge-tool of intelligence or passion, but
not naturally prone to express tenderness, became more than ever
articulate. "Sorry!" she said with difficulty, and then, "Didn't
want to rake all this up. But I'm fond of you. We've always
been pals, you and I, Lulu."

"Say whatever you like."

"Then--" she sat up, throwing away her cigarette-"I'm going to
warn you. All Chilmark believes Lawrence is your lover."

"And do you?"

"No. I know you wouldn't run an intrigue."

"Thank you."

"But Jack and I both think, if you don't want to cut and run with
him, you ought to pack him off. Mind, if you do want to, you can
count me in, and Jack too. I'm not religious: Jack is, but he's
not narrow. As for the social bother of it--marriage is a
useful institution and all that, but it's perfectly obvious that
one can get--over the rails and back again if one has money.
There aren't twenty houses (worth going to) in London that would
cut you if you turned up properly remarried to a rich man."

"Are you . . . recommending this course?"

"I'd like you to be happy."

"And what about Bernard?"

"Put in a couple of good train