“It’s nearly one o’clock,” she said. “I thought—”
Her husband sat down and lit a cigarette.
“The silly girl has things in such a mess,” he said, “I thought it would only be decent to stay and help her a little.”
“Of course,” Christine agreed.
She was uneasy at Paul’s appearance. He looked pale and tired and severe. There were smudges on his face and on his collar; and then she caught sight of a grimy handkerchief tied around his wrist.
“Have you hurt yourself, Paul, darling?” she asked anxiously. “Do let me see—”
“Certainly not!” he answered, frowning. “I’m not one of those clumsy imbeciles who are always getting hurt!”
This was the first time that Paul had ever behaved quite so much like a married man; but Christine was prepared for it, and was tactful.
“She’s a very pretty girl, isn’t she?” she asked.
“She may be pretty,” Paul answered judiciously; “but she’s not the type that appeals to me. Personally, I think she’s the very worst type of modern woman. She’s—there’s nothing feminine about her. She’s an egotist.” He paused. “After all,” he went on, “what a woman should be is a man’s comrade and companion. They should share their work and their play. This idea of a woman having all sorts of absurd privileges, and behaving like an empress, simply because she’s a woman, is monstrous!”