“You’re quite right, I’m a snarling, vituperative, vindictive man until your smile creates a miracle within me,” he said, as he bowed low to her.
Whenever Oppendorf liked a woman he treated her at times with a whimsical pretense of courtliness and deference, merrily overdone enough to make the whimsicality apparent.
“How easy it would be to believe you,” she responded, with a sigh that carried off the vestige of a smile.
“Emotions are never false—even the masquerade must become real before it can be persuasive,” Oppendorf answered, quickly changing to a mien of abstracted, impersonal challenge. “When the reality survives for a long time it is called sincere and true, and people have faith in it. It may be just as real for a moment, an hour, six days.”
“You’re a sophist and a promiscuous wretch, and I’ll probably wind up by hating you,” Margaret said, as she slid into his arms. “Just as a person begins to depend on you ... you flit away ... I know.”
“Why does a woman hate a man when he departs with an honest abruptness?”—Oppendorf shifted to the inquiry of a distressed child. “Or, why do men hate women for the same reason? I am immersed in you at present because you contain qualities which I cannot find in the other women around me. To-night, perhaps, or in a month from now, I may meet another woman who does possess them, together with other qualities which you lack. In such a case, my immersion would naturally transfer itself. God, how human beings detest everything except the snug, warm permanence which is either a lie or an unsearching sleep!”
“There’s nothing logical about pain, Max,” Margaret said. “It must be deaf, and angry, and blind, and pleading, until it dies down. When a girl’s lover goes off, her mind can say: ‘He revived and stimulated me, and I’m glad I did have him for a while,’ but just the same her heart still cries out: ‘Oh, he’s mean, and selfish, and treacherous, and I hate him!’”
Although she was conversing with Helgin, on the couch, Blanche had caught bits of the other couple’s talk, and they brought a worried tinge to her heart. Oppendorf was wrong—in very rare cases a man and a woman could love each other forever. Of course, the cases were rare simply because people deeply harmonious in every way, from their dancing-steps and tastes in clothes down to the very last opinion in their minds, hardly ever met each other. That was it. It was simply a question of luck as to whether you’d find this one person in a million or not.
Helgin called out: “Well, Don Juan’s defending himself again. He’s more convincing when he doesn’t talk. Come on, Oppie, stop the necking for a while and join us. You’re falling into the boresome habit of dropping into a lady’s arms for hours and spoiling the party.”
“I never object to other people taking the same privilege,” Oppendorf replied, placidly, as Margaret slipped from his lap.