"Well, you must make her, then. That's why you've got to leave me out of it. I've been too much in it all along. It was through me she conceived that unfortunate idea of your goodness. I'm its father and its mother and its nurse, I ministered to it every hour. I fed it, I brought it up, I brought it out, I provided all the opportunity for its display. Nothing else had a show beside your goodness, Wallie dear. It was something monstrous. It took Anne's affection from you and concentrated it all on itself. She worshipped it, she clung to it, she saw nothing else but it, and when it went everything went. You went first of all. Well, you must just see that that doesn't happen again."
"You mean that I must lead a life of iniquity?"
"You mustn't lead a life of anything."
"Do you mean I mustn't be good any more?"
Majendie's imagination played hilariously with this fantastic, this preposterous notion of his goodness.
"Oh yes, be good," said Edith, "but not too good. Above all, not too good to me. Concentrate on her, stupid."
"I have concentrated," he moaned, mystified beyond endurance. "Besides, you said I couldn't make her jealous."
"No, I wish you could. I mean, don't let her fall in love with your devotion to me again. Don't hold her by that one rope. Hold her by all your ropes; then, if one goes, it doesn't so much matter."
"I see. You don't trust my goodness."
"Oh, I trust it, so will she again. But don't you trust it. That precious goodness of yours is your rival. A bad, dangerous rival. You've got to beat it out of the field. Show that you're jealous of it. A little judicious jealousy won't hurt." Edith's eyes were still and profound with wisdom. "I don't believe you've ever yet made love to Anne properly. That's what it all comes to."