“I suppose we’ve always had a blind love for each other,” said Peter, “always.”
“I hated you to care for any one but myself,” said Joan, “since ever I can remember. I hated even Billy.”
“It’s well we found out in time,” said Peter.
“I found out,” said Joan.
“Ever since we stopped being boy and girl together,” said Peter, “I’ve never been at peace in my nerves and temper till now.... Now I feel as though I swung free in life, safe, sure, content.”
“Content,” weighed Joan suspiciously. “But you’re still in love with me, Petah?”
“Not particularly in love,” said Peter. “No. But I’m loving you—as the June sun loves an open meadow, shining all over it. I shall always love you, Joan, because there is no one like you in all the world. No one at all. Making love happens, but love endures. How can there be companionship and equality except between the like?—who can keep step, who can climb together, joke broad and shameless, and never struggle for the upper hand? And where in all the world shall I find that, Joan, but in you? Listen to wisdom, Joan! There are two sorts of love between men and women, and only two—love like the love of big carnivores who know their mates and stick to them, or love like some man who follows a woman home because he’s never seen anything like her before. I’ve done with that sort of love for ever. There’s men who like to exaggerate every difference in women. They pretend women are mysterious and dangerous and wonderful. They like sex served up with lies and lingerie.... Where’s the love in that? Give me my old brown Joan.”
“Not so beastly brown,” said Joan.
“Joan nature.”
“Tut, tut!” said Joan.