And Eve had him at her sweet mercy.  He was helpless.  She was easily the stronger.  He perceived then, what many a husband dies without having perceived, that his wife had a genuine individual existence and volition of her own, that she was more than his complement, his companion, the mother of his children.

She lowered her head further and gave him a long, fresh, damp kiss.  They were very intimate, with an intimacy that her enigmatic quality could not impair.  He was annoyed, aggrieved, rebellious, but extremely happy in a weak sort of way.  He hated and loved her, he despised and adored her, he reprehended and admired her—­all at once.  What specially satisfied him was that he had her to himself.  The always-impinging children were not there.  He liked this novel solitude of two.

“Darling, where is Charlie staying in Glasgow?”

“Why?”

“I want to write to him.”

“Post’s gone, my poor child.”

“Then I shall telegraph.”

“What about?”

“Never mind.”

“I shan’t tell you the address unless you promise to show me the telegram.  I intend to be master in my own house even if I am dying.”

Thus he saw the telegram, which ran:  “Father ill in bed what is the best motor car to buy.  Love.  Mother.”  The telegram astounded Mr. Prohack.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” he cried.  Then he laughed.  What else was there to do?  What else but the philosopher’s laugh was adequate to the occasion?

While Eve with her own unrivalled hand was preparing the bedroom for the night, Machin came in with a telegram.  Without being asked to do so Eve showed it to the sufferer:  “Tell him to buck up.  Eagle six cylinder.  Everything fine here.  Charles.”

“I think he might have sent his love,” said Eve.

Mr. Prohack no longer attempted to fight against the situation, which was like a net winding itself round him.

CHAPTER VIII

SISSIE’S BUSINESS

I

One evening, ten days later, Mr. Prohack slipped out of his own house as stealthily as a thief might have slipped into it.  He was cured provisionally.  The unseen, unfelt, sinister duodenum no longer mysteriously deranged his whole engine.  Only a continual sensation of slight fatigue indicated all the time that he was not cleverer than nature and that he was not victoriously disposing of his waste products.  But he could walk mildly about; his zest for smoking had in part returned; and to any uninstructed observer he bore a close resemblance to a healthy man.