Bowen paused to light another cigarette, and then took up his theme.  “Isn’t that the key to our easy divorces?  If we cared for women in the old barbarous possessive way do you suppose we’d give them up as readily as we do?  The real paradox is the fact that the men who make, materially, the biggest sacrifices for their women, should do least for them ideally and romantically.  And what’s the result—­how do the women avenge themselves?  All my sympathy’s with them, poor deluded dears, when I see their fallacious little attempt to trick out the leavings tossed them by the preoccupied male—­the money and the motors and the clothes—­and pretend to themselves and each other that that’s what really constitutes life!  Oh, I know what you’re going to say—­it’s less and less of a pretense with them, I grant you; they’re more and more succumbing to the force of the suggestion; but here and there I fancy there’s one who still sees through the humbug, and knows that money and motors and clothes are simply the big bribe she’s paid for keeping out of some man’s way!”

Mrs. Fairford presented an amazed silence to the rush of this tirade; but when she rallied it was to murmur:  “And is Undine one of the exceptions?”

Her companion took the shot with a smile.  “No—­she’s a monstrously perfect result of the system:  the completest proof of its triumph.  It’s Ralph who’s the victim and the exception.”

“Ah, poor Ralph!” Mrs. Fairford raised her head quickly.  “I hear him now.  I suppose,” she added in an undertone, “we can’t give him your explanation for his wife’s having forgotten to come?”

Bowen echoed her sigh, and then seemed to toss it from him with his cigarette-end; but he stood in silence while the door opened and Ralph Marvell entered.

“Well, Laura!  Hallo, Charles—­have you been celebrating too?” Ralph turned to his sister.  “It’s outrageous of me to be so late, and I daren’t look my son in the face!  But I stayed down town to make provision for his future birthdays.”  He returned Mrs. Fairford’s kiss.  “Don’t tell me the party’s over, and the guest of honour gone to bed?”

As he stood before them, laughing and a little flushed, the strain of long fatigue sounding through his gaiety and looking out of his anxious eyes, Mrs. Fairford threw a glance at Bowen and then turned away to ring the bell.

“Sit down, Ralph—­you look tired.  I’ll give you some tea.”

He dropped into an arm-chair.  “I did have rather a rush to get here—­but hadn’t I better join the revellers?  Where are they?”

He walked to the end of the room and threw open the dining-room doors.  “Hallo—­where have they all gone to?  What a jolly cake!” He went up to it.  “Why, it’s never even been cut!”

Mrs. Fairford called after him:  “Come and have your tea first.”

“No, no—­tea afterward, thanks.  Are they all upstairs with my grandfather?  I must make my peace with Undine—­” His sister put her arm through his, and drew him back to the fire.