JOHN CROMARTIE and Josephine Lackett gave up their green tickets at the turnstile, and entered the Zoological Society’s Gardens by the South Gate.
It was a warm day at the end of February, and Sunday morning. In the air there was a smell of spring, mixed with the odours of different animals—yaks, wolves, and musk-oxen, but the two visitors did not notice it. They were lovers, and were having a quarrel.
They came soon to the Wolves and Foxes, and stood still opposite a cage containing an animal very like a dog.
“Other people, other people! You are always considering the feelings of other people,” said Mr. Cromartie. His companion did not answer him, so he went on:
“You say somebody feels this, or that somebody else may feel the other. You never talk to me about anything except what other people are feeling, or may be going to feel. I wish you could forget about other people and talk about yourself, but I suppose you have to talk of other people’s feelings because you haven’t any of your own.”
The beast opposite them was bored. He looked at them for a moment and forgot them at once. He lived in a small space, and had forgotten the outside world where creatures very like himself raced in circles.
“If that is the reason,” said Cromartie, “I do not see why you should not say so. It would be honest if you were to tell me you felt nothing for me. It is not honest to say first that you love me, and then that you are a Christian and love everybody equally.”
“Nonsense,” said the girl, “you know that is nonsense. It is not Christianity, it is because I love several people very much.”
“You do not love several people very much,” said Cromartie, interrupting her. “You cannot possibly love people like your aunts. Nobody could. No, you do not really love anybody. You imagine that you do because you have not got the courage to stand alone.”