His wife’s eyes flashed.
“Oliver,” she said, “we’ve never yet had a row—a proper row. But if you’re going to rake up the muck we picked over last night, we shall break our record with a bang. Now listen to me. Women are not like men. They may be as tough as teak, but once in a while they crumple—for half an hour. Something inside gives way. It’s humiliating, but there you are. . . . Well, I crumpled up last night. And you—you saw me. You witnessed my humiliation. Are you going to take advantage of what you saw?”
“No,” said Oliver, “I’m not. I’m not that sort of man. But I’ve things to say to you, Jean, that—that don’t concern the Bostocks or—or Pat Lafone.”
Jean raised her eyebrows.
“It’s only ten now,” she said, “and what’s the matter with this room?”
Oliver rose to his feet and pushed back his chair.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly.
The man’s brain was pounding. Jean’s sentences seemed to reach it by a circuitous route. On arrival they had to be parsed . . .
Mechanically he took out his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he continued slowly.
“You know what you said last night . . . about being tied tight . . . so long as we’d money——”