“Charming,” said Stibo, who had not ceased twining his mustaches in his pink fingers.

“Ah, that’s the point.  What of the wife?” said Steingall, violently.

“The wife—­the ideal wife, mind you—­is then the weapon, the refuge.  To escape from the entanglement of his momentary inspiration, the artist becomes a man:  my wife and bonjour.  He returns home, takes off the duster of his illusion, cleans the palette of old memories, washes away his vows, protestations, and all that rot, you know, lies down on the sofa, and gives his head to his wife to be rubbed.  Curtain.  The comedy is over.”

“But that’s what they don’t understand,” said Steingall, with enthusiasm.  “That’s what they will never understand.”

“Such miracles exist?” said Towsey with a short, disagreeable laugh.

“I know the wife of an artist,” said Quinny, “whom I consider the most remarkable woman I know—­who sits and knits and smiles.  She is one who understands.  Her husband adores her, and he is in love with a woman a month.  When he gets in too deep, ready for another inspiration, you know, she calls up the old love on the telephone and asks her to stop annoying her husband.”

“Marvelous!” said Steingall, dropping his glasses.

“No, really?” said Rankin.

“Has she a sister?” said Towsey.

Stibo raised his eyes slowly to Quinny’s but veiled as was the look, De Gollyer perceived it, and smilingly registered the knowledge on the ledger of his social secrets.

“That’s it, by George! that is it,” said Steingall, who hurled the enthusiasm of a reformer into his pessimism.  “It’s all so simple; but they won’t understand.  And why—­do you know why?  Because a woman is jealous.  It isn’t simply of other women.  No, no, that’s not it; it’s worse than that, ten thousand times worse.  She’s jealous of your art!  That’s it!  There you have it!  She’s jealous because she can’t understand it, because it takes you away from her, because she can’t share it.  That’s what’s terrible about marriage—­no liberty, no individualism, no seclusion, having to account every night for your actions, for your thoughts, for the things you dream—­ah, the dreams!  The Chinese are right, the Japanese are right.  It’s we Westerners who are all wrong.  It’s the creative only that counts.  The woman should be subordinated, should be kept down, taught the voluptuousness of obedience.  By Jove! that’s it.  We don’t assert ourselves.  It’s this confounded Anglo-Saxon sentimentality that’s choking art—­that’s what it is.”

At the familiar phrases of Steingall’s outburst, Rankin wagged his head in unequivocal assent, Stibo smiled so as to show his fine upper teeth, and Towsey flung away his cigar, saying: 

“Words, words.”