The question of how married, whether by the authority of the State of Illinois, or by their own free will and consent, was not permitted to be raised; for if once one started in considering questions like that, one got nowhere! The how of anything in the world was a question one might debate for ever. Plato and H. G. Wells—St. Paul and Bernard Shaw—Tolstoi and Nietzsche—Dante and Milton—and Edward Bok ... the sages had never agreed what marriage was. Some said it was a social arrangement, some an agreement between two individuals, some a mystical sacrament; others considered it a necessary evil; and still others a damned nuisance. Felix himself had inclined to the view that it was a relic of barbarism, connected in some way with those other barbaric institutions, Private Property and the State. Perhaps it was; but that was not the point. Whether as a survival of the barbaric idea of possession or by common understanding and consent, whether by the majestic force of law or by private agreement, whether by sensual habitude or as an outward and visible sign of some inward and spiritual grace—they were man and wife.
That seemed to simplify the situation immensely. The relations of two individuals, as such, were infinitely complex and incalculable; but the relations of man and wife were something that the mind could comprehend. Thus—what had happened, as an incident in the history of two human bundles of emotions and ideas, was a mystery profound and unfathomable; but as an incident in the history of a marriage, it was no mystery at all—it was just a quarrel.... Married people often quarreled. Why? Perhaps because they were married.... And—generally—they made up. Perhaps for the same reason.
It was a comfort to merge the uniqueness of one’s woes in the ocean of generality—to feel that in this very perturbation he was representative of a vast class; that even here he was simply a husband!
And the solution of his difficulties was—this being the conclusion to which his theory led—to try to behave like any other husband in the same circumstances. Not—he was quite certain of this—not like Felix Fay. Not like a young man who has read learned books on psychology. But like a husband....
He had elaborated his theory in the spare moments of twenty-four hours devoted to arranging his affairs at the office so that he could be gone for an indefinite period. His first impulse had been to take the train and let his job go hang; but a young man who has just discovered that he is a husband realizes the significance of a job in its relation to his marriage. If he failed in his errand, the job did not matter; but it mattered very much if he succeeded.... And yet—he could not explain his predicament to any one; his very dignity as a husband was bound up in his not admitting that anything had gone wrong with his marriage. He had to think up some plausible lie to tell the managing editor. His play—Los Angeles—the moving pictures—five thousand dollars—a chance to direct it personally ... a lie like that was the sort of thing people liked to believe. The mention of five thousand dollars ought to convince any managing editor.... And it did.
The afternoon before he took the train, Felix had gone to see old Mrs. Perk at the Community House Theatre. She was still there, sewing costumes. He threaded a needle for her. They gossiped for a while. Then he asked her suddenly,
“Granny Perk, did you ever run away from your husband?”
A delicious smile of reminiscence stole over her plump old face.
“Yes, bless your heart, I did!” she said. It was as if he had recalled to her some exquisite and delicious adventure.
She shook her head. “I was young,” she said, as if that explained much. “I was a girl as liked to have my own way. And so,” she said proudly, “one day, I took the bit in my teeth and ran away!”