‘That’s true,’ Penderel confessed. ‘I don’t understand ’em. I don’t even pretend to. Another thing, I don’t like the fellows who do.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Philip. ‘It’s a funny thing, but the men who write little books about women, or lecture about them, or pretend to specialise in them in their novels are always complete bounders. You must have noticed that, Penderel?’ He had said this before—he could almost read the number of times in Margaret’s glance, demure, amused, tolerant—but he spoke with conviction. The thought of those greasy experts suddenly annoyed him.
‘I have noticed it.’ Penderel was very emphatic. ‘They’re nasty, crawly lads, who’d be better employed selling lipsticks. Why women themselves can’t see it, I don’t know. They seem to love ’em.’
‘There you go again!’ Margaret was amused by the pair of them, so intolerant and self-righteous, so young mannish. ‘I believe the secret of your hostility is simple jealousy. You’re both jealous because these men seem to be so attractive.’ They instantly denied the charge, but let her continue. ‘And anyhow, sensible women don’t like them very much, probably don’t like them at all in their heart of hearts. But one can’t help being interested and curious, of course.’
‘One can,’ said Philip, gloomily, ‘or one ought to try. Too many people are interested and curious nowadays. We’re all becoming tasters. We sit at the back of our minds watching our sensations like people at a music hall, and we find ourselves yawning between the turns. It’s impossible to be happy, or even cheerful, that way. I’m no better than anybody else; we seem to be all alike. But I do draw the line somewhere. If some silly bounder of a woman became a Man expert, and wrote little books or went round lecturing on Man, I wouldn’t waste a minute reading her or go a yard to hear her talk. Very few men would.’
‘No, and simply because you are all so conceited,’ Margaret told him. She was beginning to enjoy this, and for the moment had even forgotten where they were. ‘We’re so anxious to have men’s opinion because we’re not conceited, though, thank goodness, we’re beginning to lose our silly humility. You are convinced that no woman could tell you anything worth hearing about yourselves; but even if you thought she could, you’d still take care to keep out of the way so that your complacency shouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘There’s something in that,’ Philip admitted, and immediately thought how complacent he sounded. Was he really? Margaret was waking up delightfully, suddenly flowering in this darkness.
Penderel was staring about him. ‘I suppose this counts as dining-out. In a day or two we shall be able to say: “The other night when I dined with the Femms.” That brings it down to commonplace, lets the daylight in, with a crash. I don’t know why it should, but it does.’
‘I’m glad it does,’ said Philip. ‘I like the commonplace. It’s the little trim lighted bit of life, with God-knows-what waiting for you if you just go over the edge. Some people I know say they hate waking in the morning and leaving their dreams, but it seems to me that either they must lead a ghastly waking life or they must be crazy. I’m always glad to wake in the morning and find myself out of my dreams, which always turn me into a poor shaking barbarian wandering in the dark, compelled to do some idiotic thing with terror all round me. Ordinary life’s bad enough, but it’s a prince to the stuff we spin out of our rotten unconsciousnesses every night. Don’t you think so?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Penderel stopped to consider the question. ‘I think I must be one of the other people. I often have a splendid time in dreams, and hate waking up. Perhaps when I wake up, I land into one of your dreams. It sounds like it from your description of them, which seems to me a fair account of life on some days. Perhaps we’re all mixed up, your dreams are my waking life, and so on.’