“Oh, rot,” said Oliver stoutly. He felt for a match. “Rot. At least, I can’t speak for you, but I certainly care.”
“Up to a point—yes. So do I. But we don’t mean anything to each other.”
“You mean something to me,” protested Pauncefote.
“So does your bath before dinner. You’re accustomed to me—that’s all. If you went out to-night, I should wear black for a year. It’s the fashion. But I should be fed to the teeth to think that my green lace dress was going spare. . . . And if I popped off to-morrow, you’d curse the fact that you couldn’t go to Ascot. And you’d soon be putting out feelers to find out whether it’d be decent to show up at Goodwood and saying to yourself, ‘She would have liked me to go.’ ”
“I—I don’t think I should,” faltered Pauncefote.
“Why not?” said Jean. “You wouldn’t feel any grief. We don’t mean anything.”
Oliver frowned. Then he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded its bowl.
“Assuming you’re right,” he said, “—mark you, I don’t admit it—but, assuming you’re right, why is it?”
Jean shrugged her shining shoulders.
“C’est la mode,” she said. “It’s the age, the time—what you will. Married love’s out of fashion—that’s all.”