“Because I cannot.  I cannot.  I would.  But I cannot.  The Borghesia—­ the citizens—­the bourgeoisie, they are the ones who can.  Oh, yes.  The bourgeoisie, the shopkeepers, these serve their wives so, and their wives love them.  They are the marital maquereaux—­the husband-maquereau, you know.  Their wives are so stout and happy, and they dote on their husbands and always betray them.  So it is with the bourgeoise.  She loves her husband so much, and is always seeking to betray him.  Or she is a Madame Bovary, seeking for a scandal.  But the bourgeois husband, he goes on being the same.  He is the horse, and she the driver.  And when she says gee-up, you know—­then he comes ready, like a hired maquereau.  Only he feels so good, like a good little boy at her breast.  And then there are the nice little children.  And so they keep the world going.—­But for me—­” he spat suddenly and with frenzy on the floor.

“You are quite right, my boy,” said Argyle.  “You are quite right.  They’ve got the start of us, the women:  and we’ve got to canter when they say gee-up.  I—­oh, I went through it all.  But I broke the shafts and smashed the matrimonial cart, I can tell you, and I didn’t care whether I smashed her up along with it or not.  I didn’t care one single bit, I assure you.—­And here I am.  And she is dead and buried these dozen years.  Well—­well!  Life, you know, life.  And women oh, they are the very hottest hell once they get the start of you.  There’s NOTHING they won’t do to you, once they’ve got you.  Nothing they won’t do to you.  Especially if they love you.  Then you may as well give up the ghost:  or smash the cart behind you, and her in it.  Otherwise she will just harry you into submission, and make a dog of you, and cuckold you under your nose.  And you’ll submit.  Oh, you’ll submit, and go on calling her my darling.  Or else, if you won’t submit, she’ll do for you.  Your only chance is to smash the shafts, and the whole matrimonial cart.  Or she’ll do for you.  For a woman has an uncanny, hellish strength—­she’s a she-bear and a wolf, is a woman when she’s got the start of you.  Oh, it’s a terrible experience, if you’re not a bourgeois, and not one of the knuckling-under money-making sort.”

“Knuckling-under sort.  Yes.  That is it,” said the Marchese.

“But can’t there be a balancing of wills?” said Lilly.

“My dear boy, the balance lies in that, that when one goes up, the other goes down.  One acts, the other takes.  It is the only way in love—­And the women are nowadays the active party.  Oh, yes, not a shadow of doubt about it.  They take the initiative, and the man plays up.  That’s how it is.  The man just plays up.—­Nice manly proceeding, what!” cried Argyle.

“But why can’t man accept it as the natural order of things?” said Lilly.  “Science makes it the natural order.”

“All my —–­ to science,” said Argyle.  “No man with one drop of real spunk in him can stand it long.”