“I’m so glad,” she said, “not for the sake of having a car but because. . . .” For the first time in their married life, she almost felt shy with him.
“Because of what?”
“Because I know you can’t bear failure.”
“Failure,” he laughed; then, growing serious, “No. I’ve no use for failures. The man who ‘goes under’ doesn’t strike me as pathetic—only as idiotic.”
“You mean the man who fails to make money.”
“Good Lord, no. Money’s nothing. At best, only the counters with which we are paid for winning certain games. Mine, for instance. By failure, I mean not getting what you go for. Never mind what it is—fame, money, tranquillity, distinction. A girl or a seat in the House of Lords. As long as you know what you want, and get it, you’re a success.”
“But some people don’t want anything in particular.”
“I’ve no use for that kind.”
Her trained mind told her that the man had voiced his whole creed. Her woman’s instinct resented it. “He didn’t want her like that. She was only a side-issue. ‘Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his’—cigarette-factory.”
“Idiot” said her reason. “Idiot! You’ve been married eight years. . . .”