“You didn’t think so by the time she’d finished with you.”

“I was an ass.  A giddy, hysterical ass.  I didn’t understand.  Poor old Connie!  She could just swim for herself—­but not for both of us.  And I scared her stiff—­tying myself round her neck like that.”

Stonehouse cut him short.

“Nobody could accuse Mademoiselle Labelle of being a poor swimmer,” he said. (He wondered at the same moment whether there was something wrong with him.  He was so intently conscious of her.  He could see her lounging idly in the big chair opposite, so damnably sure of herself and amused.  He wanted to insult and, if possible, hurt her.)

“You’re awfully down on people, Robert.  Hard on ’em.  Often wonder why you haven’t chucked me off long ago.  But that’s an old story.  You ought to like her for being able to swim well.  It’s what you do yourself.”

“I don’t mind her swimming well,” Robert returned.  “But I understand that she’s been able to drown quite a number of people better able to look after themselves than you are.  As far as you’re concerned, it seems—­rather a pity.”

Cosgrave shook his head.  A certain quiet obstinacy, not altogether that of intoxication, came into his flushed face.  And yet he looked sorry and almost ashamed.

“I’m not going to drown.  You know—­I hate standing out against you, Robert.  You’ve been so—­so jolly decent to me—­and I believe in you—­more than in anything in the world.  Always have done.  If you said ‘the earth’s square,’ I’d say, ‘Why, yes, so it is—­old chap!’ But this—­this is different—­it’s like a dog eating grass—­a sort of instinct.”

“Instinct!” Robert echoed ironically.  “If you know where most instincts lead to——­” He stopped, and then went on in a cold, matter-of-fact tone, as though he were diagnosing a disease.  “It’s not my business—­but since you’ve come here I’d be interested to hear what you think is going to be the end of it all.  I might persuade you to look facts in the face.  By position you’re a little suburban nobody, who was pushed out to West Africa to become a third-rate little trader.  You’ve survived, and you’ve got a little money to burn.  To you it seems a fortune.  But it won’t pay this woman’s cigarette bills.  She makes you ridiculous.”

“I am ridiculous,” Cosgrave interrupted patiently.  “I always have been, you know.  I expect I always shall be.  I’m the square peg in the round hole—­and that’s always comic.  But she doesn’t laugh at me.  She’s just let me join in like a good sport.  I know I’m out of place, too, among her smart pals—­you needn’t rub it in—­but she doesn’t seem to make any difference, I might be the smartest of the lot.  I tell you, when I think of the good times I’ve had, I feel—­I feel”—­absurd and drunken tears came into his eyes—­“as though I were in church—­I’m so awfully grateful.”

“Her smart pals pay pretty dearly for their good times.  It will be time to be grateful when she’s had enough of you.”  It escaped him against his will.  He knew the futility of such taunts which seemed to betray an anger too senseless to be admitted.  He did not care enough to be angry.