Dick was amazed but not silenced by Lewis’ violence. “I felt surprised myself at first,” he owned. “But it isn’t so wild as you seem to think. And not a bit idiotic. I like Petra. I like her a lot. I didn’t used to. It’s only lately I’ve begun to understand her. She’s—why, she’s a stunning girl, really. And she isn’t in love with anybody else, that I know of. She’s not engaged to that McCloud person, in spite of Clare thinking for a while that she might be and was keeping it secret, the way she likes keeping things secret. But now Petra has told me herself she isn’t. And I’ve got Saint Paul with me: It’s better to marry than to burn.... There’s the whole Greek idea, too. Those Greek fellows, of course, weren’t faithful to their wives in the sense that I shall be faithful to Petra. But the situation was rather parallel, all the same. They had their intellectual and spiritual friendships with men or with women not their wives—and it succeeded. It was wise and sane. Clare thought you would be sympathetic—understand—”
“Look here, Dick! Prick me and wake me up. This isn’t real. If it is, if I’m awake, then somebody’d better advise Farwell to get in a good psychiatrist—but not me, thanks. I’m out of it. But Clare should be under observation. You too. You both had better leave Petra alone. Not that anything either of you could say or do will even so much as touch her wholesomeness! I’m a fool to get so excited about it. What do you say—shall we go back to the car and start for Boston—or shall we stick this out till the fog lifts? I’m perfectly ready to go back.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dick was in favor of sticking it out. He thought Lewis madder, if anything, than Lewis thought him, which had the advantage of evening things up between them.... And then, halfway down the hill, Dick was struck by an idea. Was Lewis himself in love with Petra? Could anything be more probable? Petra was utterly beautiful. Propinquity too, and all that!... But why hadn’t Clare seen this possibility? Suppose she had seen it—. Was that the reason why she had been so insistent on Dick’s telling Lewis the whole situation? So that Lewis would be forewarned? But why would not Clare consider marriage between Petra and Doctor Pryne a very good marriage indeed? Clare wanted the very best for Petra, Dick never doubted that. Did Clare think, perhaps, that Petra could never be happy without a great deal of money? Well, Petra probably couldn’t, and Dick, not Lewis, had the money. Petra was mad about clothes, lovely clothes. She dressed more interestingly than any girl he knew. Pretty big of Clare, with her own indifference to luxury and clothes, to consider Petra’s different temperament, and have such long, wise thoughts for the girl’s future.
But Lewis was such a grand person! Quite aside from his fame, his personality was head and shoulders above any other man Dick knew,—even Lowell Farwell’s. Oughtn’t that personality to make up for Lewis’ comparative poverty, even to Petra’s rather shallow young view? Dick, in all humility, should think that it would and that in a choice between them any girl would choose Lewis, not himself.... But Clare understood Petra better, it seemed. It was clever of her not to have told him that Lewis might be his rival for Petra, but instead to send them off down here together, where Dick could find it out for himself. But put yourself in Lewis’ place. If you were in love with a girl, and a friend came to you and told you he was not in love with this same girl but wanted to marry her all the same,—how would you feel? Pretty furious! Just the way Lewis had acted! Dick wondered that Clare hadn’t had as much imagination for Lewis’ feelings, as she had had for Dick’s own, and Petra’s. Well, Clare loved him and Petra; and Lewis, after all, was only a respected acquaintance. That explained it. But it was tough on Lewis, all the same.
As they reached and crossed the wide trail toward Jordan Pond, Dick felt a new emotion coming to life and ascending in his heart—like a skyrocket. Elation! To win Petra from a fellow like Lewis! To imagine Petra desired—and by such a man—had had the effect of making her suddenly more desirable to himself. He would tell this phenomenon to Clare, when he got back, quite frankly. You could tell Clare anything. Her detachment was an exquisite, a consoling thing. If he told her that Petra, he felt, might in time come to take Clare’s own place with him, Clare would even then keep her dear, generous detachment. But of course, Dick could never have any such nonsense as that to tell Clare. No matter how fond he ever became of his beautiful wife, Clare would remain as long as he lived, his—his most beloved.
Abruptly, Lewis interrupted these forecastings. “See here, Dick, I’m sorry I got so hot. But let’s make a bargain. Don’t you mention Green Doors again or anybody in it as long as we are together on this holiday, and I’ll go back now and play golf with you instead of hiking. It’s what you want, I know, and you were merely being altruistic.... The idea of going on walking, anyway, doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Really?”
“Really! We can swing around to Asticou Inn and go back for our clubs, can’t we?”