He went on in the tone of one who confidently expects that there will be no more nonsense:  “When you married me you had some sort of idea how we’d live.”

“I assumed you had thought out those things or you’d not have married me,” cried she hotly.  In spite of her warnings to herself she couldn’t keep cool.  His manner, his words were so inflammatory that she could not hold herself from jumping into the mud to do battle with him.  She abandoned her one advantage—­high ground; she descended to his level.  “You knew the sort of woman I was,” she pursued.  “You undertook the responsibility.  I assume you are man enough to fulfill it.”

He felt quite at home with her now.  “And you?” rasped he.  “What responsibility did you undertake?”

She caught her breath, flamed scarlet.

“Now let us hear what wife means in the dictionary of a lady.  Come, let’s hear it!”

She was silent.

“I’m not criticising,” he went on; “I’m simply inquiring.  What do you think it means to be a wife?”

Still she could think of no answer.

“It must mean something,” urged he.  “Tell me.  I’ve got to learn some time, haven’t I?”

“I think,” said she, with a tranquil haughtiness which she hoped would carry off the weakness of the only reply she could get together on such short notice, “among our sort of people the wife is expected to attend to the social part of the life.”

He waited for more—­waited with an expression that suggested thirst.  But no more came.  “Is that all?” he inquired, and waited again—­in vain.  “Yes? ...Well, tell me, where in thunder does the husband come in?  He puts up the cash for the wife to spend in dressing and amusing herself—­is that all?”

“It is generally assumed,” said she, since she had to say something or let the case go against her by default, “that the social side of life can be very useful in furthering a man.”

He vented a scornful sound that was like a hoot.  “In furthering a lick-spittle—­yes.  But not a man!”

“Our ideas on some subjects are hopelessly apart.”

She suddenly realized that this whole conversation had been deliberately planned by him; that he had, indeed, been debating within himself their future life, and that he had decided that the time was ripe for a frank talk with her.  It angered her that she had not realized this sooner, that she had been drawn from her position, had been forced to discuss with him on his own terms and at his own time and in his own manner.  She felt all the fiery indignation of the schemer who has been outwitted.

“Your tone,” said she, all ice, “makes it impossible for a well-bred person to discuss with you.  Let us talk of something else, or of nothing at all.”

“No.  Let’s thresh it out now that we’ve begun.  And do try to keep your temper.  There’s no reason for anger.  We’ve got to go back to civilization.  We’ve got to live after we get there.  We want to live comfortably, as satisfactorily for both as our income permits.  Now, what shall we do?  How shall we invest our eight thousand a year—­and whatever your grandmother allows you?  I don’t need much.  I’ll turn the salary over to you.  You’re entirely welcome to all there is above my board and clothes.”