“I said that he wasn’t my style. That’s putting it rather low. He’s rather like a tiger, while I’m like a poodle-dog. . . . He’s a brilliant, striking personality—swift, heartless and unearthly strong. Women go mad about him: men dislike him—but they always give him the wall. Wherever he goes he dominates. It isn’t force of will, because it’s effortless: he never makes up his mind to get his own way—he just takes it, always, no matter at whose cost. But he—he never pays. . . . Well, if that’s his way with the world, you can imagine, Perry, how far the poodle gets. . . . But that’s not all. I’ve come—it’s very natural—I’ve come to irritate him. . . .”
She sighed heavily, and a dreary, hopeless note slid into her voice.
“You’ve seen a leaf on the road before the wind. Well, I’m like a leaf on a road—the open road of life. A dry, shrivelled leaf before the north-east wind. The wind’s pitiless—devils the wretched leaf from pillar to post, never gives it a second’s rest. And the road’s open, and the leaf . . . can’t get away. . . .”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“Why,” said Peregrine hoarsely, “why can’t the leaf get away?”
Joan threw up her hands.
“I knew you’d say that,” she said. “It does seem strange, doesn’t it—that the leaf shouldn’t be able to get away? Well, Perry, you’ll hardly believe me, but it’s a matter of pluck. The door’s open—I’ve only got to walk out. But I can’t do it.”
“D’you mean . . . you love him?”
“ ‘Love him?’ ” cried Joan. “Does the leaf love the north-east wind? Of course, it’s different for you because you’re a man. Women can be very trying, but they can’t reduce men to pulp. So you can’t put yourself in my place. But if you were a slave and your master had given you hell day in day out for five long, frightful years—well, d’you think you’d love him, Perry?”