"Oh no! Not at all."
"My boy," Ingpen insisted, sitting up, and gazing earnestly at Edwin. "Analyse them down, and they're all physical--all! And I tell you I won't pay the price for them. I won't. I've no grievance against women; I can enjoy being with women as much as anybody, but I won't--I will not--live permanently on their level. That's why I say I might have been fool enough to get married. It's quite simple."
"Hm!"
Edwin, although indubitably one of those who had committed the vast folly of marriage, and therefore subject to Ingpen's indictment, felt not the least constraint, nor any need to offer an individual defence. Ingpen's demeanour seemed to have lifted the argument above the personal. His assumption that Edwin could not be offended was positively inspiring to Edwin. The fear of truth was exorcised. Freedom of thought existed in that room in England. Edwin reflected: "If he's right and I'm condemned accordingly,--well, I can't help it. Facts are facts, and they're extremely interesting."
He also reflected:
"Why on earth can't Hilda and I discuss like that?"
He did not know why, but he profoundly and sadly knew that such discussion would be quite impossible with Hilda.
The red-hot coals in the grate subsided together.
"And I'll tell you another thing----" Ingpen commenced.
He was stopped by the entrance of Mrs. Dummer, a fat woman, with an old japanned tray. Mrs. Dummer came in like a desperate forlorn hope. Her aged, grim, and yet somewhat hysterical face seemed to say: "I'm going to clear this table and get on with my work, even if I die for it at the hands of a brutal tyrant." Her gestures as she made a space for the tray and set it down on the table were the formidable gestures of the persecuted at bay.