“One moment,” said Jean coldly, “I don’t seem to have made myself plain. I endeavoured to point out just now that reference to what passed last night would be bad form. And I hinted that I should resent it—most bitterly.”
Oliver passed a hand across his forehead.
“I know,” he said. “I’m not referring——”
“You quoted what you said were my words.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. . . .”
“Well, please pull yourself together, because I mean what I say. This is a question of honour—between the sexes. I broached certain matters last night which we never should have discussed in a thousand years. You know that as well as I do. I never should have broached them if I hadn’t gone to bits. You’d never have heard me broach them if I hadn’t been your wife.”
“I know, I know,” said Pauncefote wearily. “Don’t say it again.” He drew in his breath as one about to make an effort. “Jean.”
“Well?”
“Supposing . . . all of a sudden . . . we—we became poor . . . You know. Lost all we’d got. . . . Supposing——”
He stopped there.