Part 20 (1/2)

”And if they do?”

”Then, if the sentiment stands test and trial, and proves genuine, and not a silly freak, the fact ought to be frankly faced. Husband and wife have no business to go on keeping up a bond that has become false and irksome.”

Miss Temperley broke into protest. ”But surely you don't mean to defend such faithlessness.”

Algitha would not admit that it _was_ faithlessness. She said it was mere honesty. She could see nothing inherently wrong in falling in love genuinely after one arrived at years of discretion. She thought it inherently idiotic, and worse, to make a choice that ought to be for life, at years of _in_discretion. Still, people _were_ idiotic, and that must be considered, as well as all the other facts, such as the difficulty of really knowing each other before marriage, owing to social arrangements, and also owing to the training, which made men and women always pose so ridiculously towards one another, pretending to be something that they were not.

”Well done, Algitha,” cried Ernest, laughing; ”I like to hear you speak out. Now tell me frankly: supposing you married quite young, before you had had much experience; supposing you afterwards found that you and your husband had both been deceiving yourselves and each other, unconsciously perhaps; and suppose, when more fully awakened and developed, you met another fellow and fell in love with him genuinely, what would you do?”

”Oh, she would just mention it to her husband casually,” Fred interposed with a chuckle, ”and disappear.”

”I should certainly not go through terrific emotions and self-accusations, and think the end of the world had come,” said Algitha serenely. ”I should calmly face the situation.”

”Calmly! She by supposition being madly in love!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Fred, with a chuckle.

”Calmly,” repeated Algitha. ”And I should consider carefully what would be best for all concerned. If I decided, after mature consideration and self-testing, that I ought to leave my husband, I should leave him, as I should hope he would leave me, in similar circ.u.mstances. That is my idea of right.”

”And is this also your idea of right, Miss Fullerton?” asked Temperley, turning, in some trepidation, to Hadria.

”That seems to me right in the abstract. One can't p.r.o.nounce for particular cases where circ.u.mstances are entangled.”

Hubert sank back in his chair, and ran his hand over his brow. He seemed about to speak, but he checked himself.

”Where did you get such extraordinary ideas from?” cried Miss Temperley.

”They were like Topsy; they growed,” said Fred.

”We have been in the habit of speculating freely on all subjects,” said Ernest, ”ever since we could talk. This is the blessed result!”

”I am not quite so sure now, that the Preposterous Society meets with my approval,” observed Miss Temperley.

”If you had been brought up in the bosom of this Society, Miss Temperley, you too, perhaps, would have come to this. Think of it!”

”Does your mother know what sort of subjects you discuss?”

There was a shout of laughter. ”Mother used often to come into the nursery and surprise us in hot discussion on the origin of evil,” said Hadria.

”Don't you believe what she says, Miss Temperley,” cried Fred; ”mother never could teach Hadria the most rudimentary notions of accuracy.”

”Her failure with my brothers, was in the department of manners,” Hadria observed.

”Then she does _not_ know what you talk about?” persisted Henriette.

”You ask her,” prompted Fred, with undisguised glee.

”She never attends our meetings,” said Algitha.

”Well, well, I cannot understand it!” cried Miss Temperley. ”However, you don't quite know what you are talking about, and one mustn't blame you.”

”No, don't,” urged Fred; ”we are a sensitive family.”

”Shut up!” cried Ernest with a warning frown.