“I don’t know,” he began, “that I should quite call it that—­”

But the compelling complacency of his fine eyes, the dignified posture of his healthy body, the lofty slope of his narrow forehead, the perfectly humane look of his cultivated brutality, struck Shelton as ridiculous.

“Hang it, Hall” he cried, jumping from his chair, “what an old fraud you are!  I’ll be off.”

“No, look here!” said Halidome; the faintest shade of doubt had appeared upon his face; he took Shelton by a lapel:  “You’re quite wrong—­”

“Very likely; good-night, old chap!”

Shelton walked home, letting the spring wind into him.  It was Saturday, and he passed many silent couples.  In every little patch of shadow he could see two forms standing or sitting close together, and in their presence Words the Impostors seemed to hold their tongues.  The wind rustled the buds; the stars, one moment bright as diamonds, vanished the next.  In the lower streets a large part of the world was under the influence of drink, but by this Shelton was far from being troubled.  It seemed better than Drama, than dressing-bagged men, unruffled women, and padded points of view, better than the immaculate solidity of his friend’s possessions.

“So,” he reflected, “it’s right for every reason, social, religious, and convenient, to inflict one’s society where it’s not desired.  There are obviously advantages about the married state; charming to feel respectable while you’re acting in a way that in any other walk of life would bring on you contempt.  If old Halidome showed that he was tired of me, and I continued to visit him, he’d think me a bit of a cad; but if his wife were to tell him she couldn’t stand him, he’d still consider himself a perfect gentleman if he persisted in giving her the burden of his society; and he has the cheek to bring religion into it—­a religion that says, ‘Do unto others!’”

But in this he was unjust to Halidome, forgetting how impossible it was for him to believe that a woman could not stand him.  He reached his rooms, and, the more freely to enjoy the clear lamplight, the soft, gusty breeze, and waning turmoil of the streets, waited a moment before entering.

“I wonder,” thought he, “if I shall turn out a cad when I marry, like that chap in the play.  It’s natural.  We all want our money’s worth, our pound of flesh!  Pity we use such fine words—­’Society, Religion, Morality.’  Humbug!”

He went in, and, throwing his window open, remained there a long time, his figure outlined against the lighted room for the benefit of the dark square below, his hands in his pockets, his head down, a reflective frown about his eyes.  A half-intoxicated old ruffian, a policeman, and a man in a straw hat had stopped below, and were holding a palaver.

“Yus,” the old ruffian said, “I’m a rackety old blank; but what I say is, if we wus all alike, this would n’t be a world!”