"We drifted here as we are doing now.She pulled at the sweet rushes and crushed them in her hand.She adds a remembered brightness to this afternoon.
"Honest.Friendly.Of all the women I have known, this woman who was here with me came nearest to being my friend.You know, what we call virtue in a woman is a tremendous handicap to any real friendliness with a man.Until she gets to an age when virtue and fidelity are no longer urgent practical concerns, a good woman, by the very definition of feminine goodness, isn't truly herself.Over a vast extent of her being she is RESERVED.She suppresses a vast amount of her being, holds back, denies, hides.On the other hand, there is a frankness and honesty in openly bad women arising out of the admitted fact that they are bad, that they hide no treasure from you, they have no peculiarly precious and delicious secrets to keep, and no poverty to conceal.
Intellectually they seem to be more manly and vigorous because they are, as people say, unsexed.Many old women, thoroughly respectable old women, have the same quality.
Because they have gone out of the personal sex business.
Haven't you found that?"
"I have never," said the doctor, known what you call an openly bad woman,--at least, at all intimately...."Sir Richmond looked with quick curiosity at his companion.
"You have avoided them!"
"They don't attract me."
"They repel you?"
"For me," said the doctor, "for any friendliness, a woman must be modest....My habits of thought are old-fashioned, I suppose, but the mere suggestion about a woman that there were no barriers, no reservation, that in any fashion she might more than meet me half way..."His facial expression completed his sentence.
"Now I wonder," whispered Sir Richmond, and hesitated for a moment before he carried the great research into the explorer's country."You are afraid of women?" he said, with a smile to mitigate the impertinence.
"I respect them."
"An element of fear."
"Well, I am afraid of them then.Put it that way if you like.
Anyhow I do not let myself go with them.I have never let myself go.""You lose something.You lose a reality of insight."There was a thoughtful interval.
"Having found so excellent a friend," said the doctor, "why did you ever part from her?"Sir Richmond seemed indisposed to answer, but Dr.Martineau's face remained slantingly interrogative.He had found the effective counterattack and he meant to press it."I was jealous of her," Sir Richmond admitted."I couldn't stand that side of it."Section 5
After a meditative silence the doctor became briskly professional again.
"You care for your wife," he said."You care very much for your wife.She is, as you say, your great obligation and you are a man to respect obligations.I grasp that.Then you tell me of these women who have come and gone....About them too you are perfectly frank...There remains someone else." Sir Richmond stared at his physician.
"Well," he said and laughed."I didn't pretend to have made my autobiography anything more than a sketch.""No, but there is a special person, the current person.""I haven't dilated on my present situation, I admit.""From some little things that have dropped from you, I should say there is a child.""That," said Sir Richmond after a brief pause, "is a good guess." "Not older than three." "Two years and a half.""You and this lady who is, I guess, young, are separated.At any rate, you can't go to her.That leaves you at loose ends, because for some time, for two or three years at least, you have ceased to be--how shall I put it?--an emotional wanderer." "I begin to respect your psychoanalysis.""Hence your overwhelming sense of the necessity of feminine companionship for weary men.I guess she is a very jolly companion to be with, amusing, restful--interesting.""H'm," said Sir Richmond."I think that is a fair description.When she cares, that is.When she is in good form.""Which she isn't at present," hazarded the doctor.He exploded a mine of long-pent exasperation.
"She is the clumsiest hand at keeping well that I have ever known.Health is a woman's primary duty.But she is incapable of the most elementary precautions.She is maddeningly receptive to every infection.At the present moment, when Iam ill, when I am in urgent need of help and happiness, she has let that wretched child get measles and she herself won't let me go near her because she has got something disfiguring, something nobody else could ever have or think of having, called CARBUNCLE.Carbuncle!""It is very painful," said Dr.Martineau."No doubt it is,"said Sir Richmond.
"No doubt it is." His voice grew bitter.He spoke with deliberation."A perfectly aimless, useless illness,--and as painful as it CAN be."He spoke as if he slammed a door viciously.And indeed he had slammed a door.The doctor realized that for the present there was no more self-dissection to be got from Sir Richmond.
For some time Sir Richmond had been keeping the boat close up to the foaming weir to the left of the lock by an occasional stroke.Now with a general air of departure he swung the boat round and began to row down stream towards the bridge and the Radiant Hotel.
"Time we had tea," he said, Section 6
After tea Dr.Martineau left Sir Richmond in a chair upon the lawn, brooding darkly--apparently over the crime of the carbuncle.The doctor went to his room, ostensibly to write a couple of letters and put on a dinner jacket, but really to make a few notes of the afternoon's conversation and meditate over his impressions while they were fresh.
His room proffered a comfortable armchair and into this he sank...A number of very discrepant things were busy in his mind.He had experienced a disconcerting personal attack.
There was a whirl of active resentment in the confusion.
"Apologetics of a rake," he tried presently.
