“Which may be painful.”

“Precisely. How long are you going to stay in Paris?”

“I don't know. As long as Paris pleases me. Am I going to see you any more, or are you too much engrossed? I don't want to take you away from your duties.”

“I don't think you are likely to, Clara.”

“Possibly not. Your wife will keep a tight rein upon you. She looks that sort. But I don't know why we should be talking in this strain the first time we have had a word together for—how many years? Four? Five? We have quickly dropped into old ways. But then you were a fire-eater, a chartered libertine, independent, a bird of freedom. Whereas now—my poor friend!”

“By George!” cried Thornton, starting forward, with some excitement in his eyes that glowed in the dimness, “don't fall into any delusion. If you think I am going the way of another poor friend of ours who can't call his soul his own, you are devilishly mistaken. I married because it happened to strike me that I wanted to do so. But I run the concern, and my wife's a sensible woman and recognises the fact. And whatever I want to do I am going to do. I have generally done it, and don't see why I should break through my habit now.”

“And your wife?”

“How—my wife?”

“Is she going to enjoy a beautiful independence likewise?”

“No. It isn't good for women.”