"Oh, Lord!" he mumbled, contritely. "I had forgotten you were here,
Henry. I am so jolly upset."

"This heartlessness about poor Maurice has finished you, eh?" Mr.
Fordyce suggested. He felt he might be gaining his end.

Michael covered his face with his hands.

"It seems so ghastly to think of marriage with the poor chap not yet
dead--I am fairly knocked over--it really is the last straw--but she
will cry and make a scene--and she has certainly arguments--and it will
make one feel such a cad to leave her."

"She wrote that--did she?--wrote of marriage and her husband's last
attack of hemorrhage in the same paragraph, I suppose. Michael, it is
revolting! My dear boy, you must break away from her--and then do try to
occupy yourself with more important things than women. Believe me, they
are all very well in their way and in their proper place--to be treated
with the greatest courtesy and respect as wives and mothers--even loved,
if you will, for a recreation--but as vital factors in a man's real
life! My dear fellow, the idea is ridiculous--that life should be for
his country and the development of his own soul----"

Michael Arranstoun laughed.

"Jolly old Mohammedan! You think women have none, I suppose!"

Henry Fordyce frowned, because it was rather true--but he denied the
charge.