VII
Ingram, at supper in his private room, had his elbows on the table, and
spoke between his fists to Chevenix, let into these mysteries for the
first time.
"I ought not to complain, you'll say, and in my heart of hearts I don't,
because I'm a reasonable man, and know that you don't make a row about
sunstroke or lightning-shocks. We call 'em the Act of God, and rule 'em
out in insurance offices. No, no, I see what I've let myself in for. I've
been away too much; she's got sick of it. I shall have to work at it--to
bring her round. By God, and she's worth it. She's a wonder."
"Pity," said Chevenix, "you've only just found it out."
Ingram frowned, and waxing in rage, stared at his friend as if he had
never known him. "You don't know what you're talking about. Why, she
adored me. I was never more in love with a woman in my life than I was
with Sancie."
Chevenix tilted back his chair. "Oh, you had it pretty badly--at the time.
The trouble with you is that you are such a chap for accepting things.
You're like a hall-porter in a Swiss hotel. You take things for granted.
Do nothing--hold out your hand--and get your perks. Perks! Why, they ain't
perks at all.
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