Charteris started.  “Your husband loves you,” he said, in gentle reproof.  “And quite candidly, you know, Rudolph is worth ten of me.”

“Bah, I tell you, that was a comedy for my benefit,” she protested, and began to laugh.  Patricia was unutterably happy now, because she, and not John Charteris, had been in the wrong.  “Poor Rudolph!—­he has such a smug horror of the divorce-court that he would even go so far as to pretend to be in love with his own wife in order to keep out of it.  Really, Jack, both our better-halves are horribly commonplace and they will be much better off without us.”

“You forget that Rudolph has my word of honor,” said Mr. Charteris, in indignation.

And that instant, with one of his baffling changes of mood, he began to laugh.  “Really, though, Patricia, you are very pretty.  You are April embodied in sweet flesh; your soul is just a wisp of April cloud, and your life an April day, half sun that only seems to warm, and half tempest that only plays at ferocity; but you are very pretty.  That is why I am thinking, light-headedly, it would be a fine and past doubt an agreeable exploit to give up everything for such a woman, and am complacently comparing myself to Antony at Actium.  I am thinking it would be an interesting episode in one’s Life and Letters.  You see, my dear, I honestly believe the world revolves around John Charteris—­although of course I would never admit that to you if I thought for a moment you would take me seriously.”

Then presently, sighing, he was grave again.  “But, no!  Rudolph has my word of honor,” Mr. Charteris repeated, and with unconcealed regret.

“Ah, does that matter?” she cried.  “Does anything matter, except that we love each other?  I tell you I have given the best part of my life to that man, but I mean to make the most of what is left.  He has had my youth, my love—­there was a time, you know, when I actually fancied I cared for him—­and he has only made me unhappy.  I hate him, I loathe him, I detest him, I despise him!  I never intend to speak to him again—­oh, yes, I shall have to at supper, I suppose, but that doesn’t count.  And I tell you I mean to be happy in the only way that’s possible.  Everyone has a right to do that.  A woman has an especial right to take her share of happiness in any way she can, because her hour of it is so short.  Sometimes—­sometimes the woman knows how short it is and it almost frightens her....  But at best, a woman can be really happy through love alone, Jack dear, and it’s only when we are young and good to look at that men care for us; after that, there is nothing left but to take to either religion or hand-embroidery, so what does it matter, after all?  Yes, they all grow tired after a while.  Jack, I am only a vain and frivolous person of superlative charm, but I love you very much, my dear, and I solemnly swear to commit suicide the moment my first wrinkle arrives.  You shall never grow tired of me, my dear.”