't know that my character is upon the whole rather
vindictive."

"No, I didn't know," I said with a grin. "That's rather unusual for a
sailor. They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men in the
world."

"H'm! Simple souls," Marlow muttered moodily. "Want of opportunity. The
world leaves them alone for the most part. For myself it's towards women
that I feel vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that it is
small. But then the occasions in themselves are not great. Mainly I
resent that pretence of winding us round their dear little fingers, as of
right. Not that the result ever amounts to much generally. There are so
very few momentous opportunities. It is the assumption that each of us
is a combination of a kid and an imbecile which I find provoking--in a
small way; in a very small way. You needn't stare as though I were
breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a women-devouring
monster. I am not even what is technically called "a brute." I hope
there's enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirements
of some really good woman eventually--some day . . . Some day. Why do
you gasp? You don't suppose I should be afraid of getting married? That
supposition would be offensive . . . "

"I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said.

"Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs.
Fyne. That lady's little finger was none of my legal property. I had
not run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be
wound round as much as his backbone could stand--or even more, for all I
cared. His rushing away from the discussion on the transparent pretence
of quieting the dog confirmed my notion of there being a considerable
strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne resolved not to assist
her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a stick in the
spokes of another woman's wheel.

She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar and
olympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domestic
life in its lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severely
unadorned words she gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope
for some really helpful suggestion from me. To this almost chiding
declaration--because my vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit of
teasing--I said that I was really doing my best. And being a
physiognomist . . . "

"Being what?" she interrup