The Avenue de Clichy was crowded at that hour, and a lively fancy might see in the passers-by the personages of many a sordid romance. There were clerks and shopgirls; old fellows who might have stepped out of the pages of Honore de Balzac; members, male and female, of the professions which make their profit of the frailties of mankind. There is in the streets of the poorer quarters of Paris a thronging vitality which excites the blood and prepares the soul for the unexpected.  
"Do you know Paris well?" I asked.
 
"No. We came on our honeymoon. I haven't been since."
 
"How on earth did you find out your hotel?"
 
"It was recommended to me. I wanted something cheap."
 
The absinthe came, and with due solemnity we dropped water over the melting sugar.
 
"I thought I'd better tell you at once why I had come to see you," I said, not without embarrassment.
 
His eyes twinkled. "I thought somebody would come along sooner or later. I've had a lot of letters from Amy."
 
"Then you know pretty well what I've got to say."
 
"I've not read them."
 
I lit a cigarette to give myself a moment's time. I did not quite know now how to set about my mission. The eloquent phrases I had arranged, pathetic or indignant, seemed out of place on the Avenue de Clichy. Suddenly he gave a chuckle.
 
"Beastly job for you this, isn't it?"
 
"Oh, I don't know," I answered.
 
"Well, look here, you get it over, and then we'll have a jolly evening."
 
I hesitated.
 
"Has it occurred to you that your wife is frightfully unhappy?"
 
"She'll get over it."
 
I cannot describe the extraordinary callousness with which he made this reply. It disconcerted me, but I did my best not to show it. I adopted the tone used by my Uncle Henry, a clergyman, when he was asking one of his relatives for a subscription to the Additional Curates Society.
 
"You don't mind my talking to you frankly?"
 
He shook his head, smiling.
 
"Has she deserved that you should treat her like this?"
 
"No."
 
"Have you any complaint to make against her?"
 
"None."
 
"Then, isn't it monstrous to leave her in this fashion, after seventeen years of married life, without a fault to find with her?"
 
"Monstrous."
 
I glanced at him with surprise. His cordial agreement with all I said cut the ground from under my feet. It made my position complicated, not to say ludicrous. I was prepared to be persuasive, touching, and hortatory, admonitory and expostulating, if need be vituperative even, indignant and sarcastic; but what the devil does a mentor do when the sinner makes no bones about confessing his sin? I had no experience, since my own practice has always been to deny everything.
 
"What, then?" asked Strickland.
 
I tried to curl my lip.
 
"Well, if you acknowledge that, there doesn't seem much more to be said."
 
"I don't think there is."
 
I felt that I was not carrying out my embassy with any great skill. I was distinctly nettled.
 
"Hang it all, one can't leave a woman without a bob."
 
"Why not?"
 
"How is she going to live?"
 
"I've supported her for seventeen years. Why shouldn't she support herself for a change?"
 
"She can't."
 
"Let her try."
 
Of course there were many things I might have answered to this. I might have spoken of the economic position of woman, of the contract, tacit and overt, which a man accepts by his marriage, and of much else; but I felt that there was only one point which really signified.
 
"Don't you care for her any more?"
 
"Not a bit," he replied.
 
The matter was immensely serious for all the parties concerned, but there was in the manner of his answer such a cheerful effrontery that I had to bite my lips in order not to laugh. I reminded myself that his behaviour was abominable. I worked myself up into a state of moral indignation.
 
"Damn it all, there are your children to think of. They've never done you any harm. They didn't ask to be brought into the world. If you chuck everything like this, they'll be thrown on the streets.
 
"They've had a good many years of comfort. It's much more than the majority of children have. Besides, somebody will look after them. When it comes to the point, the MacAndrews will pay for their schooling."
 
"But aren't you fond of them? They're such awfully nice kids. Do you mean to say you don't want to have anything more to do with them?"
 
"I liked them all right when they were kids, but now they're growing up I haven't got any particular feeling for them."
 
"It's just inhuman."
 
"I dare say."
 
"You don't seem in the least ashamed."
 
"I'm not."
 
I tried another tack.
 
"Everyone will think you a perfect swine."
 
"Let them."
 
"Won't it mean anything to you to know that people loathe and despise you?"
 
"No."
 
His brief answer was so scornful that it made my question, natural though it was, seem absurd. I reflected for a minute or two.
 
"I wonder if one can live quite comfortably when one's conscious of the disapproval of one's fellows? Are you sure it won't begin to worry you? Everyone has some sort of a conscience, and sooner or later it will find you out. Supposing your wife died, wouldn't you be tortured by remorse?"
 
He did not answer, and I waited for some time for him to speak. At last I had to break the silence myself.
 
"What have you to say to that?"
 
"Only that you're a damned fool."
 
"At all events, you can be forced to support your wife and children," I retorted, somewhat piqued. "I suppose the law has some protection to offer them."
 
"Can the law get blood out of a stone? I haven't any money. I've got about a hundred pounds."
 
I began to be more puzzled than before. It was true that his hotel pointed to the most straitened circumstances.
 
"What are you going to do when you've spent that?"
 
"Earn some."
 ............