And Suzanne? She was somewhere in the city. I pictured her in council with her comrades in some grimy committee room, some tenement parlor—the light of the glorious vision in their eyes—planning the great reconstruction, plotting the coronation of justice. She had turned her back on the love I offered that some greater love might be made manifest. It seemed to me wrong. But right or wrong, I loved her better that night than ever before. It was as though a comet had become a fixed star.
And I was sorry for her—while admiring. Like all the rest of us, she was caught in the vast spider web of life, beating her wings to pieces in the divine effort to reach the light. All the people I could think of seemed in the same plight—admirable and pitiable. Is not this immense, spawning, struggling family of ours as much alike in the uncertainty of life as in the certainty of death?
Once ashore, I called up Ann on the telephone. Her laboratory had been moved into the city, and so we could arrange to lunch together. I was glad of the public restaurant, I would have found it harder to tell her about Suzanne, if we had been alone. When once Ann understood, she made it as easy for me as possible.
"And so," she said at last as we reached the entrance to her laboratory, "you won’t be coming out to Cromley?"
"I would be a decidedly glum guest, I’m afraid,"
She stood for a moment on the step, her brows puckered.
"Well," she said, "If you really want her—go after her. Hit her on the head and drag her to your cave. Oh, I know. I’m too matter of fact and all that. But it’s the way to get her—beat her a little."
"I had my chance to do that," I said, "and couldn’t. Perhaps you’re right—but I love her a bit too much. I shan’t go after her."
"If I was a man, I’d go after what I wanted." Then her eyes softened. "But I’m only a woman. All I can do is to tell you—you’re always welcome at Cromley."
She turned and ran up the steps to her laboratory.
In this conversation I realized the basic difference between Ann’s point of view and mine, more clearly than before. Her philosophy taught her to be, if not satisfied, at least content, with half things. If she could not get just what she wanted, nor all of it, she tried to be happy with what was available. Doubtless she found life better worth living than I did. But such an attitude towards Suzanne would have seemed to me a desecration. Perhaps if I had sought her out, argued with her, tried to dominate her will—tried figuratively to "beat her a little"—I might have persuaded her to marry me. Perhaps. But what I might have won in this way, would not only have been less than what I wanted, but something quite different.