‘Dearest,’ Nataly pressed hand on her left breast, ’may we not think that she may be right?’

’An outrageous tyranny of a decrepit woman naming herself wife when she is only a limpet of vitality, with drugs for blood, hanging-on to blast the healthy and vigorous!  I remember old Colney’s once, in old days, calling that kind of marriage a sarcophagus.  It was to me.  There I lay —­see myself lying! wasting!  Think what you can good of her, by all means!  From her bed! despatches that Jarniman to me from her bedside, with the word, that she cannot in her conscience allow—­what imposition was it I practised? . . . flagrant sin?—­it would have been an infinitely viler . . . .  She is the cause of suffering enough:  I bear no more from her; I’ve come to the limit.  She has heard of Lakelands:  she has taken one of her hatreds to the place.  She might have written, might have sent me a gentleman, privately.  No:  it must be done in dramatic style-for effect:  her confidential—­lawyer?—­doctor?—­butler!  Perhaps to frighten me:—­the boy she knew, and—­poor soul!  I don’t mean to abuse her:  but such conduct as this is downright brutal.  I laugh at it, I snap my fingers.  I can afford to despise it.  Only I do say it deserves to be called abominable.’

‘Victor, has she used a threat?’

’Am I brought to listen to any of her threats!—­Funny thing, I ’m certain that woman never can think of me except as the boy she knew.  I saw her first when she was first a widow.  She would keep talking to me of the seductions of the metropolis—­kept informing me I was a young man . . . shaking her head.  I ’ve told you.  She—­well, I know we are mixtures, women as well as men.  I can, I hope, grant the same—­I believe I can—­ allowances to women as to men; we are poor creatures, all of using one sense:  though I won’t give Colney his footing; there’s a better way of reading us.  I hold fast to Nature.  No violation of Nature, my good Colney!  We can live the lives of noble creatures; and I say that happiness was meant for us:—­just as, when you sit down to your dinner, you must do it cheerfully, and you make good blood:  otherwise all’s wrong.  There’s the right answer to Colney!  But when a woman like that . . . . and marries a boy:  well, twenty-one—­not quite that:  and an innocent, a positive innocent—­it may seem incredible, after a term of school-life:  it was a fact:  I can hardly understand it myself when I look back.  Marries him!  And then sets to work to persecute him, because he has blood in his veins, because he worships beauty; because he seeks a real marriage, a real mate.  And, I say it! let the world take its own view, the world is wrong! because he preferred a virtuous life to the kind of life she would, she must—­why, necessarily!—­have driven him to, with a mummy’s grain of nature in his body.  And I am made of flesh, I admit it.’

‘Victor, dearest, her threat concerns only your living at Lakelands.’