"If I won't argue with him," she insisted, "you can't. But we needn't
discuss it--he won't listen to you, Peyton's all gone. I never saw such
a complete wreck."
"He can't avoid it," Lee went on; "I'll have to do it if it is only for
myself; I am most infernally curious about the whole works. I want to
find out what it's about."
"If you mean love, he can't tell you; he hasn't had enough experience
to express it. You might do better with me."
"No, I want it from the man; a woman's feeling, even yours, would do me
no good. You see, this has always been explored, accounted for,
condemned, written about, from the feminine side. Where the man is
considered it is always in the most damnable light. If, in the novels,
a man leaves his home he is a rascal of the darkest sort, and his end
is a remorse no one would care to invite. That may be, but I am not
prepared to say. No, dear Claire, I am not considering it in
preparation for anything; I want to know; that's all."
"The books are stuff, of course," she agreed. "The grandfather of mine
who was killed in Madrid--it wasn't Seville--must have had a gorgeous
time: a love affair with one of the most beautiful women alive. It
lasted five months before it was found out and ended; and his wife and
he had been sick of living together. After it was over she was pleased
at being connected with such a celebrated scandal; it made her better
looking by reflected loveliness.
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