only be an adventurer, and there may he some slight trouble in the law courts,—­there usually is.  That is where we shall have to come forward and pay for the nice feeling of having children.  And, remember, we shan’t be in a position to upbraid Charlie.  He could silence us with one question, to which we could find no answer:  ’Why did you get married, you two?’ However, my pet, let us hope for the best.  It’s not yet a crime to live at great price at the Grand Babylon Hotel.  Quite possibly your son has not yet committed any crime, whatever.  If he succeeds in making a huge fortune and in keeping it, he will not commit any crime.  Rich men never do.  They can’t.  They never even commit murder.  There is no reason why they should.  Whatever they do, it is no worse than an idiosyncrasy.  Now tell me what our son talked about.”

“Well, he didn’t talk much.  He—­he wasn’t expecting me.”

“Did he ask after me?”

“I told him about you.  He asked about the car.”

“He didn’t ask after me, but he asked after the car.  Nothing very original there, is there?  Any son would behave like that.  He must do better than that if he doesn’t mean to end as an adventurer.  I must go and see him, and offer him, very respectfully, some advice.”

“Arthur, I insist that he shall come here.  It is not proper that you should go running after him.”

“Pooh, my dear!  I’m rich enough myself to run after him without being accused of snobbishness or lion-hunting or anything of that kind.”

“Oh!  Arthur!” sobbed Eve.  “Don’t you think you’re been funny quite long enough?” She then openly wept.

The singular Mr. Prohack was apparently not in the least moved by his wife’s tears.  He and she alone in the house were out of bed; there was no chance of their being disturbed.  He did not worry about his adventurous son.  He did not worry about the possibility of Oswald Morfey having a design to convert his daughter into Mrs. Oswald Morfey.  He did not worry about the fate of the speculation in which he had joined Sir Paul Spinner.  Nor did he worry about the malady called traumatic neurasthenia.  As for himself he fancied that he had not for years felt better than he felt at that moment.  He was aware of the most delicious sensation of sharing a perfect nocturnal solitude with his wife.  He drew her towards him until her acquiescent head lay against his waistcoat.  He held her body in his arms, and came deliberately to the conclusion that to be alive was excellent.

Eve’s body was as yielding as that of a young girl.  To Mr. Prohack, who of course was the dupe of an illusion, it had an absolutely enchanting girlishness.  She sobbed and she sobbed, and Mr. Prohack let her sob.  He loosed the grip of his arms a little, so that her face, free of his waistcoat, was turned upwards in the direction of the ceiling; and then he very caressingly wiped her eyes with his own handkerchief.  He gave an elaborate care to the wiping of her eyes.  For some minutes it was a Sisyphean labour, for what he did she immediately undid; but after a time the sobs grew less frequent, and at length they ceased; only her lips trembled at intervals.