He is quite alive, painfully so, to the drift of the thing. Yet he
does nothing. And this is not in keeping with his character. He is
the type of man who, in spite of an unassertive manner, holds what
he has with no uncertain grasp. Why, then, does he let this one
thing go? The logical deduction is that he knows that he never had
it. All of which, being interpreted, means that things may happen
here through the sheer inertia of other things. Almost every day I
think, 'Something ought to be done.' But I know I shall never do it.
I am not the novelist's villainess who arranges a compromising
situation and produces the surprised husband from behind a door.
Neither am I a peacemaker or an altruist. I am not selfish enough in
one way nor un-selfish enough in another. (Probably that is why life
has lost interest in my special case.) Even my emotions are
hopelessly mixed. There are times when I find myself viciously
hoping that Madam Composure will go the limit and that right
quickly. And there are other times when I feel I should like to
choke her into a proper realization of what she is risking. Not for
her sake--I'm far too feminine for that--but because I hate to see
her play with this man (whom I like myself) and get away with it."
It is worth while remembering the closing sentences of this letter.
They explain, or partially explain, a certain future action on the
part of the writer, which might otherwise seem out of keeping with
her well denned attitude of "Mary first.
Pages:
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284