“No doubt—if you were playing with me,” said Jean dryly. “Appearances have to be kept up. Never mind. The point is that one’s style can be agreeably cramped. Marriage can cramp it pleasantly or unpleasantly, but it ought to cramp it. Look at us. We aren’t affected at all. We don’t care. If we did, we shouldn’t dare show it. It—it isn’t done. . . . Life’s like ale—good, strong ale. History will show you that. But we don’t get further than the froth. That’s all right when you’re a child, but if you’re not going to get down to the liquor when you’re married, when are you?”
“My dear,” said her husband, “why worry? I’ve drunk some damned bad beer.”
“Haven’t you drunk any good?”
Oliver sighed.
“Of course,” he said, “if you’re not happy, Jean——”
“I’m not. Neither are you. We don’t know what it means.”
“I’m comfortable,” said Pauncefote. “And that’s something.”
“Listen. When you die, the tankard of Life is taken away from you. Well, supposing then you found out that the ale you’d always given a miss was the most glorious liquor you’d ever dreamed of . . . Wouldn’t you want to kick yourself?”
“Weather permitting,” said Pauncefote, “ça va sans dire.”
“And, good or bad, don’t you fancy you’d feel a bit cheap beside people who’d drunk their whack?”