“Jealousy!” he cried.  “Jealousy!  Just as though—­Can’t I have letters about things you don’t understand—­that you won’t understand?  If I asked you to read them you wouldn’t—­It’s just because—­”

“You never give me a chance to understand.”

“Don’t I?”

“No!”

“Why!—­At first I was always trying.  Socialism, religion—­all those things.  But you don’t care—­you won’t care.  You won’t have that I’ve thought over these things at all, that I care for these things!  It wasn’t any good to argue.  You just care for me in a way—­and all the rest of me—­doesn’t matter!  And because I’ve got a friend ...”

“Friend!”

“Yes—­friend!”

“Why!—­you hide her letters!”

“Because I tell you you wouldn’t understand what they are about.  But, pah!  I won’t argue.  I won’t! You’re jealous, and there’s the end of the matter!”

“Well, who wouldn’t be jealous?”

He stared at her as if he found the question hard to see.  The theme was difficult—­invincibly difficult.  He surveyed the room for a diversion.  The note-book he had disinterred from her novelettes lay upon the table and reminded him of his grievance of rained hours.  His rage exploded.  He struck out abruptly towards fundamental things.  He gesticulated forcibly.  “This can’t go on!” he cried, “this can’t go on!  How can I work?  How can I do anything?”

He made three steps and stood in a clear space.

“I won’t stand, it—­I won’t go on at this!  Quarrels—­bickerings—­discomfort.  Look there!  I meant to work this morning.  I meant to look up notes!  Instead of which you start a quarrel—­”

The gross injustice raised Ethel’s voice to an outcry. “I didn’t start the quarrel—­”

The only response to this was to shout, and Lewisham shouted.  “You start a quarrel!” he repeated.  “You make a shindy!  You spring a dispute—­jealousy!—­on me!  How can I do anything?  How can one stop in a house like this?  I shall go out.  Look here!—­I shall go out.  I shall go to Kensington and work there!”

He perceived himself wordless, and Ethel was about to speak.  He glared about him, seeking a prompt climax.  Instant action was necessary.  He perceived Huxley’s Vertebrata upon the side-table.  He clutched it, swayed it through a momentous arc, hurled it violently into the empty fireplace.

For a second he seemed to be seeking some other missile.  He perceived his hat on the chest of drawers, seized it, and strode tragically from the room.

He hesitated with the door half closed, then opened it wide and slammed it vehemently.  Thereby the world was warned of the justice of his rage, and so he passed with credit into the street.