“Yes, deuce of a life,” he assented, “but worse for the women, even in England. Always standing on their own legs, as it were, pinching and skimping for a chap they only see once in a couple of years. I say, y’know, it’s rotten bad for them, at best.”
“Quite right,” said Villiers, “and it is an experience that is bound to have its effect. The strong woman will be stronger, the weak woman weaker, and the bad woman—will go under.”
Blackburn smiled.
“Then we are three lucky chaps,” he said, and blew a ring of smoke and looked at it rather sentimentally.
Villiers laughed.
“The queer part about it is the faith they’ve got. It’s that which pulls them through. I believe if I wrote the wife to-night that I’d a Japanese girl in Nagasaki she’d never believe me, though she’s quite sophisticated enough to be cognizant of the prevalence of that sort of thing out here. She takes the attitude that such things might happen—but not to her or hers. It’s rather a potent point of view.”
“It’s an absurd point of view—no offence to you, old chap,” said Bainbridge. “Suppose it was a fact and she had to face it—what would be her attitude?”
“It couldn’t be a fact so long as she felt as she does about it,” answered Villiers; “it is that which insures her being quite right in her belief.”
“Oh, rot!” said Bainbridge. “You’re an idealist.” He took a deep drink from his tall glass. “I’ll bet you if all three of us wrote home to-night in the light of remorseful confession every one of us would receive replies, next mail out, to the same effect.”
“There’s just one way to prove that,” said Villiers, “and that’s to write.”