He crushed his serviette and threw it on the table.
“In a way, you are one of the most sensible women, Gertrude, I have ever met.”
“Am I?”
“Only you don’t realise it. It’s more temperament than virtue.”
“I’m a woman of the world, James. And there are so many important things to do that I haven’t time to worry myself about harmless little romances. I don’t think I mind in the least.”
He pushed back his chair and rose.
“I did not think you would. Only we are all egoists, more or less. One never quite knows how the ‘self’ in a person will jump.”
He crossed the room and paused at the window, looking out. His thoughts were that this wife of his was a most amazing fool, without sufficient sexual sense to appreciate human nature. It was not serene wisdom that had made her take the matter so calmly, but sheer, egregious fatuity, the milk-and-water-mindedness that is incapable of great virtues or great sins.
“Have you thought of Lynette?”
“What has Lynette to do with it, James?”