pain in his chest where that nougat stuff had disagreed.  Had Annette come in?  Not that she was any good to him in such a difficulty.  Whenever she had questioned him about his first marriage, he had always shut her up; she knew nothing of it, save that it had been the great passion of his life, and his marriage with herself but domestic makeshift.  She had always kept the grudge of that up her sleeve, as it were, and used it commercially.  He listened.  A sound—­the vague murmur of a woman’s movements—­was coming through the door.  She was in.  He tapped.

“Who?”

“I,” said Soames.

She had been changing her frock, and was still imperfectly clothed; a striking figure before her glass.  There was a certain magnificence about her arms, shoulders, hair, which had darkened since he first knew her, about the turn of her neck, the silkiness of her garments, her dark-lashed, greyblue eyes—­she was certainly as handsome at forty as she had ever been.  A fine possession, an excellent housekeeper, a sensible and affectionate enough mother.  If only she weren’t always so frankly cynical about the relations between them!  Soames, who had no more real affection for her than she had for him, suffered from a kind of English grievance in that she had never dropped even the thinnest veil of sentiment over their partnership.  Like most of his countrymen and women, he held the view that marriage should be based on mutual love, but that when from a marriage love had disappeared, or, been found never to have really existed—­so that it was manifestly not based on love—­you must not admit it.  There it was, and the love was not—­but there you were, and must continue to be!  Thus you had it both ways, and were not tarred with cynicism, realism, and immorality like the French.  Moreover, it was necessary in the interests of property.  He knew that she knew that they both knew there was no love between them, but he still expected her not to admit in words or conduct such a thing, and he could never understand what she meant when she talked of the hypocrisy of the English.  He said: 

“Whom have you got at ‘The Shelter’ next week?”

Annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve—­he always wished she wouldn’t do that.

“Your sister Winifred, and the Car-r-digans”—­she took up a tiny stick of black—­“and Prosper Profond.”

“That Belgian chap?  Why him?”

Annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said: 

“He amuses Winifred.”

“I want some one to amuse Fleur; she’s restive.”

“R-restive?” repeated Annette.  “Is it the first time you see that, my friend?  She was born r-restive, as you call it.”

Would she never get that affected roll out of her r’s?

He touched the dress she had taken off, and asked: 

“What have you been doing?”

Annette looked at him, reflected in her glass.  Her just-brightened lips smiled, rather full, rather ironical.