'You would have us marry without love?' asked the Girton Girl.
'With love, if possible,' answered the Minor Poet; 'without, rather than not at all. It is the fulfilment of the woman's law.'
'You would make of us goods and chattels,' cried the Girton Girl.
'I would make of you what you are,' returned the Minor Poet, 'the priestesses of Nature's temple, leading man to the worship of her mysteries. An American humorist has described marriage as the craving of some young man to pay for some young woman's board and lodging. There is no escaping from this definition; let us accept it. It is beautiful?so far as the young man is concerned. He sacrifices himself, deprives himself, that he may give. That is love. But from the woman's point of view? If she accept thinking only of herself, then it is a sordid bargain on her part. To understand her, to be just to her, we must look deeper. Not sexual, but maternal love is her kingdom. She gives herself not to her lover, but through her lover to the great Goddess of the Myriad Breasts that shadows ever with her guardian wings Life from the outstretched hand of Death.'
'She may be a nice enough girl from Nature's point of view,' said the Old Maid; 'personally, I shall never like her.'
CHAPTER IV
'What is the time?' asked the Girton Girl.
I looked at my watch. 'Twenty past four,' I answered.
'Exactly?' demanded the Girton Girl.
'Precisely,' I replied.
'Strange,' murmured the Girton Girl. 'There is no accounting for it, yet it always is so.'
'What is there no accounting for?' I inquired. 'What is strange?'
'It is a German superstition,' explained the Girton Girl, 'I learnt it at school. Whenever complete silence falls upon any company, it is always twenty minutes past the hour.'
'Why do we talk so much?' demanded the Minor Poet.
'As a matter of fact,' observed the Woman of the World, 'I don't think we do?not we, personally, not much. Most of our time we appear to be listening to you.'
'Then why do I talk so much, if you prefer to put it that way?' continued the Minor Poet. 'If I talked less, one of you others would have to talk more.'
'There would be that advantage about it,' agreed the Philosopher.
'In all probability, you,' returned to him the Minor Poet. 'Whether as a happy party we should gain or lose by the exchange, it is not for me to say, though I have my own opinion. The essential remains?that the stream of chatter must be kept perpetually flowing. Why?'
'There is a man I know,' I said; 'you may have met him, a man named Longrush. He is not exactly a bore. A bore expects you to listen to him. This man is apparently unaware whether you are listening to him or not. He is not a fool. A fool is occasionally amusing?Longrush never. No subject comes amiss to him. Whatever the topic, he has something uninteresting to say about it. He talks as a piano-organ grinds out music steadily, strenuously, tirelessly. The moment you stand or sit him down he begins, to continue ceaselessly till wheeled away in cab or omnibus to his next halting-place. As in the case of his prototype, his rollers are changed about once a month to suit the popular taste. In January he repeats to you Dan Leno's jokes, and gives you other people's opinions concerning the Old Masters at the Guild-hall. In June he recounts at length what is generally thought concerning the Academy, and agrees with most people on most points connected with the Opera. If forgetful for a moment?as an Englishman may be excused for being?whether it be summer or winter, one may assure oneself by waiting to see whether Longrush is enthusing over cricket or football. He is always up-to-date. The last new Shakespeare, the latest scandal, the man of the hour, the next nine days' wonder?by the evening Longrush has his roller ready. In my early days of journalism I had to write each evening a column for a provincial daily, headed 'What People are Saying.' The editor was precise in his instructions. 'I don't want your opinions; I don't want you to be funny; never mind whether the thing appears to you to be interesting or not. I want it to be real, the things people ARE saying.' I tried to be conscientious. Each paragraph began with 'That.' I wrote the column because I wanted the thirty shillings. Why anybody ever read it, I fail to understand to this day; but I believe it was one of the popular features of the paper. Longrush invariably brings back to my mind the dreary hours I spent penning that fatuous record.'
'I think I know the man you mean,' said the Philosopher. 'I had forgotten his name.'
'I thought it possible you might have met him,' I replied. 'Well, my cousin Edith was arranging a dinner-party the other day, and, as usual, she did me the honour to ask my advice. Generally speaking, I do not give advice nowadays. As a very young man I was generous with it. I have since come to the conclusion that responsibility for my own muddles and mistakes is sufficient. However, I make an exception in Edith's case, knowing that never by any chance will she follow it.'
'Speaking of editors,' said the Philosopher, 'Bates told me at the club the other night that he had given up writing the 'Answers to Correspondents' personally, since discovery of the fact that he had been discussing at some length the attractive topic, 'Duties of a Father,' with his own wife, who is somewhat of a humorist.'
'There was the wife of a clergyman my mother used to tell of,' said the Woman of the World, 'who kept copies of her husband's sermons. She would read him extracts from them in bed, in place of curtain lectures. She explained it saved her trouble. Everything she felt she wanted to say to him he had said himself so much more forcibly.'
'The argument always appears to me weak,' said the Philosopher. 'If only the perfect may preach, our pulpits would remain empty. Am I to ignore the peace that slips into my soul when perusing the Psalms, to deny myself all benefit from the wisdom of the Proverbs, because neither David nor Solomon was a worthy casket of the jewels that God had placed in them? Is a temperance lecturer never to quote the self-reproaches of poor Cassio because Master Will Shakespeare, there is evidence to prove, was a gentleman, alas! much too fond of the bottle? The man that beats the drum may be himself a coward. It is the drum that is the important thing to us, not the drummer.'
'Of all my friends,' said the Woman of the World, 'the one who has the most trouble with her servants is poor Jane Meredith.'
'I am exceedingly sorry to hear it,' observed the Philosopher, after a slight pause. 'But forgive me, I really do not see?'
'I beg your pardon,' answered the Woman of the World. 'I thought everybody knew 'Jane Meredith.' She writes 'The Perfect Home' column for The Woman's World.'
'It will always remain a riddle, one supposes,' said the Minor Poet. 'Which is the real ego?I, the author of 'The Simple Life,' fourteenth edition, three and sixpence net?'
'Don't,' pleaded the Old Maid, with a smile; 'please don't.'
'Don't what?' demanded the Minor Poet.
'Don't ridicule it?make fun of it, even though it may happen to be your own. There are parts of it I know by heart. I say them over to myself when? Don't spoil it for me.' The Old Maid laughed, but nervously.
'My dear lady,' reassured her the Minor Poet, 'do not be afraid. No one regards that poem with more reverence than do I. You can have but small conception what a help it is to me also. I, too, so often read it to myself; and when? We understand. As one who turns his back on scenes of riot to drink the moonlight in quiet ways, I go to it for sweetness and for peace. So much do I admire the poem, I naturally feel desire and curiosity to meet its author, to know him. I should delight, drawing him aside from the crowded room, to grasp him by the hand, to say to him: 'My dear?my very dear Mr. Minor Poet, I am so glad to meet you! I would I could tell you how much your beautiful work has helped me. This, my dear sir?this is indeed privilege!' But I can picture so vividly the bored look with which he would receive my gush. I can imagine the contempt with which he, the pure liver, would regard me did he know me?me, the liver of the fool's hot days.'
'A short French story I once read somewhere,' I said, 'rather impressed me. A poet or dramatist?I am not sure which?had married the daughter of a provincial notary. There was nothing particularly attractive about her except her dot. He had run through his own small fortune and was in some need. She worshipped him and was, as he used to boast to his friends, the ideal wife for a poet. She cooked admirably?a useful accomplishment during the
