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“I can get that without marriage. There are plenty of women in the world.”

Ann shot a sidelong glance at him. She had been talking to him—teasing him—as though he were an inexperienced boy. Suddenly she realized he was more than that. He was a man, living the ordinary life of most men. There were always Mrs. Bentleys to be found by such as he.

“Why should a man deliberately walk into a cage?” he went on. “What does he get out of it? The joy of providing for a pack of kids, and for a woman who nags at him if he doesn’t always behave like a Sunday school teacher. I choose to be free to live my own life.”

“Not like a Sunday school teacher,” commented Ann, drily.

“Not like a milk-and-water poet, anyhow.”

“What do you know about poets?”

“Quite as much as I want to know.”

“Which is—just nothing.”

He laughed good naturedly.

“And you know a lot, I suppose.”

“Not much, but considerably more than you do, I should say.”

“Well, I should like to make a bet with you that this chap”—he picked up the book she had laid down—"who writes so beautifully about love, didn’t know the first thing about men—real men—and how they live. He’d probably never tasted anything much stronger than lemonade.”

“Is that a test of manhood?”

“I wouldn’t give much for a man who’d never been drunk.”