"Oh! Arthur!" sobbed Eve. "Don't you think you're been funny quite long
enough?" She then openly wept.

The singular Mr. Prohack was apparently not in the least moved by his
wife's tears. He and she alone in the house were out of bed; there was
no chance of their being disturbed. He did not worry about his
adventurous son. He did not worry about the possibility of Oswald Morfey
having a design to convert his daughter into Mrs. Oswald Morfey. He did
not worry about the fate of the speculation in which he had joined Sir
Paul Spinner. Nor did he worry about the malady called traumatic
neurasthenia. As for himself he fancied that he had not for years felt
better than he felt at that moment. He was aware of the most delicious
sensation of sharing a perfect nocturnal solitude with his wife. He drew
her towards him until her acquiescent head lay against his waistcoat. He
held her body in his arms, and came deliberately to the conclusion that
to be alive was excellent.

Eve's body was as yielding as that of a young girl. To Mr. Prohack, who
of course was the dupe of an illusion, it had an absolutely enchanting
girlishness. She sobbed and she sobbed, and Mr. Prohack let her sob. He
loosed the grip of his arms a little, so that her face, free of his
waistcoat, was turned upwards in the direction of the ceiling; and then
he very caressingly wiped her eyes with his own handkerchief. He gave an
elaborate care to the wiping of her eyes. For some minutes it was a
Sisyphean labour, for what he did she immediately undid; but after a
time the sobs grew less frequent, and at length they ceased; only her
lips trembled at intervals.

Mr. Prohack said ingratiatingly: