bear it. I can't go back to that."

"And how many years do you think you'll stand being proper and
respectable, which is what you'll have to be as long as you're Mrs.
Robert Lucy? It's a stiffish job, my child, for you to tackle. Just
think of the practical difficulties. I've accounted for the sudden, very
singular collapse of your income, but there are all sorts of things that
you won't be able to account for. The disappearance, for instance, of
the entire circle of your acquaintance."

She smiled. "It would be _much_ more awkward if it didn't disappear."

"True. Still, a female friend or two is an indispensable part of a
married woman's outfit. The Lucys mayn't mind, but their friends may
regard the omission as peculiar. Then--you have charming manners, I
know--but your speech is apt, at times, to be a little, what shall I
say? Unfettered. The other day, when you were annoyed with me, you
called me a beast."

"That's nothing. I might have called you something much worse."

"You might. Happily, you did not. I've no objection to the word; it can
be used as a delicate endearment, but in your mouth it loses any tender
grace it might have had."

"I'm sorry, Wilfrid."

"Don't apologise. _I_ didn't mind. But if you call Lucy a beast he won't
like it."

"I couldn't. Besides, I shall be very careful."

"You will have to be extremely careful. The Lucys live in Hampstead, I
believe, and Hampstead enjoys the reputation of being the most
respectable suburb of London. You've no idea of the sort of people
you'll have to meet there. You'll terrify them, and they, my poor
Kitten, will exterminate you. You don't know what respectability is
like."

"I don't care. I can stand anything."

"You think you can. I _know_ that you won't be able to stand it for a
fortnight. You'll find that the air of Hampstead doesn't agree with you.
And wherever you go it'll be the same thing. You had very much better
stick to me."

"To you?"

"You'll be safer and happier. If you'll stay with me----"

"I never have--stayed--with you."

"No, but I'd like you to."

He was not going to make love to her. He was far too clever for that. He
knew that with a woman like Kitty, in Kitty's state of mind, he had
nothing to gain by making love. Neither did he propose to pit his will
against hers. That course had answered well enough in the time of his
possession of her. Passion, which was great in her, greater than her
will, made his will powerless