“Ah, but dulness is not a synonym for content,” said Maud, speaking from her new experiences. “It is a great mistake to suppose that.”
Tom flicked off the end of his cigarette ash. For the last few weeks he had deliberately stifled certain thoughts, but with Maud there was no need to stifle them.
“I am not sure,” he said. “Of course one aims at content—one aims at nothing else. But one aims at it, I think, because one knows it is unattainable. There is no such thing as content for people who are alive—you know what I mean by alive. I think we have talked about it before. For human beings to be content is to be limited.”
“Yes, and to be human is to be limited. I am talking like a maiden aunt, I know.”
Tom looked up smiling.
“You have the distinction of having invented the least applicable definition possible of yourself. What’s the opposite to maiden aunt? Married niece, I suppose. There is your label.”
“But I am not married.”
“No; but you unite qualities which are rarely united. You are experienced and you are fresh. How do you do it?”
“I might much more reasonably ask you that.”
“Not at all. At present I feel like a blasé baby.”