Lightbody laughed a barking laugh that quite satisfied De Gollyer.

“Husbands—­modern social husbands—­are excrescences—­they don’t count.  They’re mere financial tabulators—­nothing more than social sounding-boards.”

“Right!” said Lightbody savagely.

“Ah, you like that, do you?” said De Gollyer, pleased.  “I do say a good thing occasionally.  Social sounding-boards!  Why, Jack, in one-half of the marriages in this country—­no, by George, in two-thirds—­if the inconsequential, tabulating husband should come home to find a letter like this—­he’d be dancing a can-can!”

Lightbody felt a flood of soul-easing laughter well up within him.  He bit his lip and answered: 

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Pshaw!”

“A can-can!”

Lightbody, fearing to betray himself, did not dare to look at the triumphant bachelor.  He covered his eyes with his hands and sought to fight down the joyful hysteria that began to shake his whole body.  All at once he caught sight of De Gollyer’s impish eyes, and, unable longer to contain himself, burst out laughing.  The more he laughed at De Gollyer, who laughed back at him, the more uncontrollable he became.  Tears came to his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, washing away all illusions and self-deception, leaving only the joy of deliverance, acknowledged at last.

All at once holding his sides, he found a little breath and cried combustibly: 

“A can-can!”

Suddenly, with one impulse, they locked arms and pirouetted about the room, flinging out destructive legs, hugging each other with bear-like hugs as they had done in college days of triumph.  Exhausted at last, they reeled apart, and fell breathless into opposite chairs.  There was a short moment of weak, physical silence, and then Lightbody, shaking his head, said solemnly: 

“Jim—­Jim, that’s the first real genuine laugh I’ve had in six vast years!”

“My boy, it won’t be the last.”

“You bet it won’t!” Lightbody sprang up, as out of the ashen cloak of age the young Faust springs forth.  “To-morrow—­do you hear, to-morrow we’re off for Morocco!”

“By way of Paris?” questioned De Gollyer, who likewise gained a dozen years of youthfulness.

“Certainly by way of Paris.”

“With a dash of Vienna?”

“Run it off the map!”

“Good old Jack!  You’re coming back, my boy, you’re coming strong!”

“Am I?  Just watch!” Dancing over to the desk, he seized a dozen heavy books: 

“‘Evolution and Psychology,’ ‘Burning Questions!’ ’Woman’s Position in Tasmania!’ Aha!”

One by one, he flung them viciously over his head, reckoning not the crash with which they fell.  Then with the same pas de ballet he descended on the hat-box and sent it from his boot crashing over the piano.  Before De Gollyer could exclaim, he was at the closet, working havoc with the boxes of cigars.