"Well," Sylvia said, "if you had married your pure young thing she'd have . . . What is it? . . . cuckolded you within nine months. . . . "
Perowne shuddered a little at the word. He mumbled:
"I don't see. . . . It seems to be the other way . . . "
"Oh, no, it isn't," Sylvia said. "Think it over. . . . Morally, you're the husband. . . . Immorally, I should say. . . . Because he's the man I want. . . . He looks ill. . . . Do hospital authorities always tell wives what is the matter with their husbands?"
From his angle in the chair from which he had half-emerged Sylvia seemed to him to be looking at a blank wall.
"I don't see him," Perowne said.
"I can see him in the glass," Sylvia said. "Look! From here you can see him."
Perowne shuddered a little more.
"I don't want to see him. . . . I have to see him sometimes in the course of duty. . . . I don't like to . . . . "
Sylvia said:
"You," in a tone of very deep contempt. "You only carry chocolate boxes to flappers. . . . How can he come across you in the course of duty? . . . You're not a soldier!"
Perowne said:
"But what are we going to do? What will he do?"
"I," Sylvia answered, "shall tell the page-boy when he comes with his card to say that I'm engaged. . . . I don't know what he'll do. Hit you, very likely. . . . He's looking at your back now. . . . "
Perowne became rigid, sunk into his deep chair.
