“No,” said Aaron, watching with keen, half–amused eyes.

“That’s why marriage wants readjusting—or extending—to get men on to their own legs once more, and to give them the adventure again. But men won’t stick together and fight for it. Because once a woman has climbed up with her children, she’ll find plenty of grovellers ready to support her and suffocate any defiant spirit. And women will sacrifice eleven men, fathers, husbands, brothers and lovers, for one baby—or for her own female self–conceit—”

“She will that,” said Aaron.

“And can you find two men to stick together, without feeling criminal, and without cringing, and without betraying one another? You can’t. One is sure to go fawning round some female, then they both enjoy giving each other away, and doing a new grovel before a woman again.”

“Ay,” said Aaron.

After which Lilly was silent.

“One is a fool,” said Lilly, “to be lachrymose. The thing to do is to get a move on.”

Aaron looked up with a glimpse of a smile. The two men were sitting before the fire at the end of a cold, wet April day: Aaron convalescent, somewhat chastened in appearance.

“Ay,” he said rather sourly. “A move back to Guilford Street.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you,” said Lilly. “I was reading an old Baden history. They made a law in 1528—not a law, but a regulation—that: if a man forsakes his wife and children, as now so often happens, the said wife and children are at once to be dispatched after him. I thought that would please you. Does it?”

“Yes,” said Aaron briefly.

“They would have arrived the next day, like a forwarded letter.”

“I should have had to get a considerable move on, at that rate,” grinned Aaron.

“Oh, no. You might quite like them here.” But Lilly saw the white frown of determined revulsion on the convalescent’s face.

“Wouldn’t you?” he asked.

Aaron shook his head.

“No,” he said. And it was obvious he objected to the topic. “What are you going to do about your move on?”

“Me!” said Lilly. “I’m going to sail away next week—or steam dirtily away on a tramp called the Maud Allen Wing.”

“Where to?”

“Malta.”

“Where from?”

“London Dock. I fixed up my passage this morning for ten pounds. I am cook’s assistant, signed on.”

Aaron looked at him with a little admiration.

“You can take a sudden jump, can’t you?” he said.

“The difficulty is to refrain from jumping: overboard or anywhere.”

Aaron smoked his pipe slowly.

“And what good will Malta do you?” he asked, envious.

“Heaven knows. I shall cross to Syracuse, and move up Italy.”

“Sounds as if you were a millionaire.”