Point Counter Point

So anxious was she to do him good as a novelist that on more than one occasion, seeing him look admiringly at some young woman or other, she had gone out of her way to establish for him the personal contact which he would never have been able to establish for himself. It was risky, of course. He might really fall in love; he might forget to be intellectual and become a reformed character, but for some other woman’s benefit. Elinor took the risk, partly because she thought that his writing ought to come before everything else, even her own happiness, and partly because she was secretly convinced that there was in reality no risk at all, that he would never lose his head so wholly as to want to run off with another woman. The cure by affairs, if it worked at all, would be gentle in its action; and if it did work, she was sure she would know how to profit by its good effects on him. Anyhow, it hadn’t worked so far. Philip’s infidelities amounted to very little and had had no appreciable effect on him. He remained depressingly, even maddeningly the same⁠—intelligent to the point of being almost human, remotely kind, separately passionate and sensual, impersonally sweet. Maddening. Why did she go on loving him? she wondered. One might almost as well go on loving a bookcase. One day she would really leave him. There was such a thing as being too unselfish and devoted. One should think of one’s own happiness sometimes. To be loved for a change, instead of having to do all the loving oneself; to receive, instead of perpetually giving.⁠ ⁠… Yes, one day she really would leave him. She had herself to think about. Besides, it would be a punishment for Phil. A punishment⁠—for she was sure that, if she left him, he would be genuinely unhappy, in his way, as much as it lay in him to be unhappy. And perhaps the unhappiness might achieve the miracle she had been longing and working for all these years; perhaps it would sensitize him, personalize him. Perhaps it might be the making of him as a writer. Perhaps it was even her duty to make him unhappy, the most sacred of her duties.⁠ ⁠…

The sight of a dog running across the road just in front of the car aroused her from her reverie. How suddenly, how startlingly it had dashed into the narrow universe of the headlamps! It existed for a fraction of a second, desperately running, and was gone again into the darkness on the other side of the luminous world. Another dog was suddenly in its place, pursuing.

“Oh!” cried Elinor. “It’ll be⁠ ⁠…” The headlights swerved and swung straight again, there was a padded jolt, as though one of the wheels had passed over a stone; but the stone yelped. “… run over,” she concluded.

“It has been run over.”

The Indian chauffeur looked round at them, grinning. They could see the flash of his teeth. “Dog!” he said. He was proud of his English.

“Poor beast!” Elinor shuddered.

“It was his fault,” said Philip. “He wasn’t looking. That’s what comes of running after the females of one’s species.”

There was a silence. It was Philip who broke it.

“Morality’d be very queer,” he reflected aloud, “if we loved seasonally, not all the year round. Moral and immoral would change from one month to another. Primitive societies are apt to be more seasonal than cultivated ones. Even in Sicily there are twice as many births in January as in August. Which proves conclusively that in the spring the young man’s fancy.⁠ ⁠… But nowhere only in the spring. There’s nothing human quite analogous to heat in mares or she-dogs. Except,” he added, “except perhaps in the moral sphere. A bad reputation in a woman allures like the signs of heat in a bitch. Ill fame announces accessibility. Absence of heat is the animal’s equivalent of the chaste woman’s habits and principles.⁠ ⁠…”

Elinor listened with interest and at the same time a kind of horror. Even the squashing of a wretched animal was enough to set that quick, untiring intelligence to work. A poor starved pariah dog had its back broken under the wheels and the incident evoked from Philip a selection from the vital statistics of Sicily, a speculation about the relativity of morals, a brilliant, psychological generalization. It was amazing, it was unexpected, it was wonderfully interesting; but oh! she almost wanted to scream.

VII

Mrs. Betterton had been shaken off, his father and Lady Edward distantly waved to and avoided; Walter was free to continue his search. And at last he found what he was looking for. Lucy Tantamount had just emerged from the dining room and was standing under the arcades, glancing in indecision this way and that. Against the mourning of her dress the skin was luminously white. A bunch of gardenias was pinned to her bodice. She raised a hand to touch her smooth black hair and the emerald of her ring shot a green signal to him across the room. Critically, with a kind of cold intellectual hatred, Walter looked at her and wondered why he loved. Why? There was no reason, no justification. All the reasons were against his loving her.

Suddenly she moved, she walked out of sight. Walter followed. Passing the entrance to the dining room, he noticed Burlap, no longer the anchorite, drinking champagne and being talked to by the Comtesse d’Exergillod. Gosh! thought Walter, remembering his own experiences with Molly d’Exergillod. “But Burlap probably adores her. He would.⁠ ⁠… He⁠ ⁠…” But there she was again, talking⁠—damnation!⁠—with General Knoyle. Walter hung about at a little distance, waiting impatiently for an opportunity to address her.

“Caught at last,” said the General patting her hand. “Been looking for you the whole evening.”

Half satyr, half uncle, he had an old man’s weakness for Lucy. “Charming little girl!” he would assure all those who wanted to hear. “Charming little figure! Such eyes!” For the