"Who?"

"I," said Soames.

She had been changing her frock, and was still imperfectly
clothed; a striking figure before her glass. There was a certain
magnificence about her arms, shoulders, hair, which had darkened
since he first knew her, about the turn of her neck, the silkiness
of her garments, her dark-lashed, grey-blue eyes--she was
certainly as handsome at forty as she had ever been. A fine
possession, an excellent housekeeper, a sensible and affectionate
enough mother. If only she weren't always so frankly cynical about
the relations between them! Soames, who had no more real affection
for her than she had for him, suffered from a kind of English
grievance, in that she had never dropped even the thinnest veil of
sentiment over their partnership. Like most of his countrymen and
women, he held the view that marriage should be based on mutual
love, but that when from a marriage love had disappeared, or been
found never to have really existed--so that it was manifestly not
based on love--you must not admit it. There it was, and the love
was not--but there you were, and must continue to be! Thus you had
it both ways, and were not tarred with cynicism, realism, and
immorality, like the French. Moreover, it was necessary in the
interests of propriety. He knew that she knew that they both knew
there was no love between them, but he still expected her not to
admit in words or conduct such a thing, and he could never
understand what she meant when she talked of the hypocrisy of the
English. He said:

"Whom have you got at 'The Shelter' next week?"