“Oh, well!” he said, laughing. “Oh, well!”
Cassandra was left to infer that there were occasions when exaggeration was legitimate; occasions even when a man might succeed in blindfolding himself, but the concession did not alter the inward conviction. Once more she relapsed into silence, considering his words. Peignton was one of the rare people with whom it was not necessary to carry on a continuous flow of conversation. One could be silent, pursuing one’s own thoughts with a comfortable assurance that he was mentally keeping touch, and that when speech came it would be to pronounce a mutual decision.
“A second best!” Those were the words which had burned themselves on Cassandra’s brain. Life for the majority of people resolved itself into making the most of a second best. There was plenty of good, steady-going happiness in store for those who were sensible enough to take it, and not waste their time straining after the unattainable. The doctrine was distinctly bracing for those who had fallen into the trough of disappointment. Cassandra made a mental note to think over its axioms at her leisure. She had come to the stage when philosophy might have its turn, but, oh, it was good to remember that there had been a day when she had not philosophised, had not reasoned, had not made the best of anything, because youth and hope had already placed that best in her hands! What if it had been a delusion,—she had had her hour, and nothing that life could bring could take away its memory!
There stabbed through her heart a passion of pity for the man who was so calmly ignoring the glory of life. She turned towards him, her eyes dark with earnestness.
“Ah, no, it’s a mistake. Why be satisfied with makeshifts, when there’s a chance of the best? To be too easily satisfied is as foolish as to expect too much; more foolish, for you miss the dream! If the reality fails, one can always look backward and remember the dream.”
Peignton’s air of absorption had no personal reference. The words had passed over his head in so far as they applied to himself. He was looking at Cassandra and saying deep in his heart: “That woman! To grow tired of her! And Raynor! he can never have been worthy to black her boots.” Peignton had a hatred of waste, and it was waste of the worst sort to find this adorable woman thrown away on a man who was quite obtrusively unappreciative. There was such unconscious commiseration in his glance, that Cassandra drew back sharply.
“Goodness, how serious we are growing! It’s the rarest thing in the world for me to theorise. It must be the pernicious effect of paying calls. I’m not responsible for anything I say after being cooped up with rows of women discussing cooks, and Mothers’ Meetings. Forgive me if I’ve bored you!”
“I’m not bored. I’ll think over what you say. I expect you are right, and I’m wrong. When one is obliged to slack physically, as I’ve done these last years, the mind is apt to slack in sympathy. It is a sort of slacking to be content with makeshifts. I must brace up, and aim at the sky, or if a makeshift is inevitable, at least one can use a little deception and pretend that it is the best.”
“Could you do that?”
Cassandra’s eyes were incredulous, but Peignton smiled with easy assurance.