"There was no way possible in which I could have prevented it," he said slowly, after an interval which seemed to strike them both as ponderous.
"That was an admission I wanted," she flashed back. "You would have prevented it—you would have given worlds to have prevented it."
His retort came as quickly, accented by a smile:
"Not a halfpenny. I make no admissions; and I have not the faintest idea of what you are driving at. I am a pure spectator. To quote yourself, I don't make marriages, nor mar them; I think too ill of life."
"Ah no!" she said; "it is that you are too indolent; you disappoint me."
"It is you, dear lady, who are inconsistent," he cried, laughing.
"No, you disappoint me," she resumed; "seriously, my dear, I am dissatisfied with you. You will not assert yourself; you do nothing; you have done nothing. There never was a man who made less of his life."
He protested laughingly:
"I have had no time; I have been looking after my lungs."
"Ah, you are incorrigible," she exclaimed, rising; "let us go and find Mary. I give you up; or, rather, I give myself up, as an adviser. For, after all, you are right—there is nothing worth doing in this bad world except looking after one's lung, or whatever it may be."