The Pit [89]
her, declared for the modern novel, and spoke of the "newest book." But Page never read new books; she was not interested, and their talk, unable to establish itself upon a common ground, halted, and was in a fair way to end, until at last, and by insensible degrees, they began to speak of themselves and of each other. Promptly they were all aroused. They listened to one another's words with studious attention, answered with ever-ready promptness, discussed, argued, agreed, and disagreed over and over again.
Landry had said:
"When I was a boy, I always had an ambition to excel all the other boys. I wanted to be the best baseball player on the block--and I was, too. I could pitch three curves when I was fifteen, and I find I am the same now that I am a man grown. When I do a thing, I want to do it better than any one else. From the very first I have always been ambitious. It is my strongest trait. Now," he went on, turning to Page, "your strongest trait is your thoughtfulness. You are what they call introspective."
"Yes, yes," she answered. "Yes, I think so, too."
"You don't need the stimulation of competition. You are at your best when you are with just one person. A crowd doesn't interest you."
"I hate it," she exclaimed.
"Now with me, with a man of my temperament, a crowd is a real inspiration. When every one is talking and shouting around me, or to me, even, my mind works at its best. But," he added, solemnly, "it must be a crowd of men. I can't abide a crowd of women."
"They chatter so," she assented. "I can't either."
"But I find that the companionship of one intelligent, sympathetic woman is as much of a stimulus as a lot of men. It's funny, isn't it, that I should be like that?"
"Yes," she said, "it is funny--strange. But I believe in companionship. I believe that between man and woman that is the great thing--companionship. Love," she added, abruptly, and then broke off with a deep sigh. "Oh, I don't know," she murmured. "Do you remember those lines:
"Man's love is of his life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence.
Do you believe that?"
"Well," he asserted, gravely, choosing his words with deliberation, "it might be so, but all depends upon the man and woman. Love," he added, with tremendous gravity, "is the greatest power in the universe."
"I have never been in love," said Page. "Yes, love is a wonderful power."
"I've never been in love, either."
"Never, never been in love?"
"Oh, I've thought I was in love," he said, with a wave of his hand.
"I've never even thought I was," she answered, musing.
"Do you believe in early marriages?" demanded Landry.
"A man should never marry," she said, deliberately, "till he can give his wife a good home, and good clothes and--and that sort of thing. I do not think I shall ever marry."
"You! Why, of course you will. Why not?"
"No, no. It is my disposition. I am morose and taciturn. Laura says so."
Landry protested with vehemence.
"And," she went on, "I have long, brooding fits of melancholy."
"Well, so have I," he threw out recklessly. "At night, sometimes--when I wake up. Then I'm all down in the mouth, and I say, 'What's the use, by jingo?'"
"Do you believe in pessimism? I do. They say Carlyle was a terrible pessimist."
"Well--talking about love. I understand that you can't believe in pessimism and love at the same time. Wouldn't you feel unhappy if you lost your faith in love?"
"Oh, yes, terribly."
There was a moment's silence, and then Landry remarked:
"Now you are the kind of woman that would only love once, but love for that once mighty deep and strong."
Page's eyes grew wide. She murmured:
"'Tis a woman's whole existence--whole existence.' Yes, I think I am like that."
"Do you think Enoch Arden did right in going away after he found them married?"
"Oh, have you read that? Oh, isn't that a beautiful poem? Wasn't he noble? Wasn't he grand? Oh, yes, yes, he did right."
"By George, I wouldn't have gone away. I'd have
Landry had said:
"When I was a boy, I always had an ambition to excel all the other boys. I wanted to be the best baseball player on the block--and I was, too. I could pitch three curves when I was fifteen, and I find I am the same now that I am a man grown. When I do a thing, I want to do it better than any one else. From the very first I have always been ambitious. It is my strongest trait. Now," he went on, turning to Page, "your strongest trait is your thoughtfulness. You are what they call introspective."
"Yes, yes," she answered. "Yes, I think so, too."
"You don't need the stimulation of competition. You are at your best when you are with just one person. A crowd doesn't interest you."
"I hate it," she exclaimed.
"Now with me, with a man of my temperament, a crowd is a real inspiration. When every one is talking and shouting around me, or to me, even, my mind works at its best. But," he added, solemnly, "it must be a crowd of men. I can't abide a crowd of women."
"They chatter so," she assented. "I can't either."
"But I find that the companionship of one intelligent, sympathetic woman is as much of a stimulus as a lot of men. It's funny, isn't it, that I should be like that?"
"Yes," she said, "it is funny--strange. But I believe in companionship. I believe that between man and woman that is the great thing--companionship. Love," she added, abruptly, and then broke off with a deep sigh. "Oh, I don't know," she murmured. "Do you remember those lines:
"Man's love is of his life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence.
Do you believe that?"
"Well," he asserted, gravely, choosing his words with deliberation, "it might be so, but all depends upon the man and woman. Love," he added, with tremendous gravity, "is the greatest power in the universe."
"I have never been in love," said Page. "Yes, love is a wonderful power."
"I've never been in love, either."
"Never, never been in love?"
"Oh, I've thought I was in love," he said, with a wave of his hand.
"I've never even thought I was," she answered, musing.
"Do you believe in early marriages?" demanded Landry.
"A man should never marry," she said, deliberately, "till he can give his wife a good home, and good clothes and--and that sort of thing. I do not think I shall ever marry."
"You! Why, of course you will. Why not?"
"No, no. It is my disposition. I am morose and taciturn. Laura says so."
Landry protested with vehemence.
"And," she went on, "I have long, brooding fits of melancholy."
"Well, so have I," he threw out recklessly. "At night, sometimes--when I wake up. Then I'm all down in the mouth, and I say, 'What's the use, by jingo?'"
"Do you believe in pessimism? I do. They say Carlyle was a terrible pessimist."
"Well--talking about love. I understand that you can't believe in pessimism and love at the same time. Wouldn't you feel unhappy if you lost your faith in love?"
"Oh, yes, terribly."
There was a moment's silence, and then Landry remarked:
"Now you are the kind of woman that would only love once, but love for that once mighty deep and strong."
Page's eyes grew wide. She murmured:
"'Tis a woman's whole existence--whole existence.' Yes, I think I am like that."
"Do you think Enoch Arden did right in going away after he found them married?"
"Oh, have you read that? Oh, isn't that a beautiful poem? Wasn't he noble? Wasn't he grand? Oh, yes, yes, he did right."
"By George, I wouldn't have gone away. I'd have