"I think I'd like to walk a ways," said Mary suddenly. "It seems years since I stepped foot on the ground."
She left her wrap in the carriage, which followed them slowly as they strolled along the shore, and halted when they sat down after a time on a bench facing the water. They were silent, relaxed and weary, each immersed in a separate stream of thought; but conscious too of companionship. When Lavery spoke finally it was as though he were thinking aloud.
"I believe we are not meant to go through such emotional strain—I mean, human beings simply aren't constructed for it," he meditated. "I think we've gone off on a tangent, a wrong turning. We've overdeveloped our emotions, and Nature penalizes us every time for it. When you consider it, the physical world being what it is, really hostile to us, so that we have to be always on guard, and with all our care we're liable to an accident any minute—why, it's not reasonable for us to care so much for life or death—our own or other people's. Is it now? We put a wrong emphasis there, I'm sure."
Mary remained silent, and he went on:
"Of course, you may say that what we think is our highest development is all, in a way, against Nature.... Nature works for the mass, for the average, she wants quantity, not quality—she's inclined, when she sees a head rising above the mass to hit it.... What does Nature do for the finer, more sensitive human beings? She knocks them, every chance she gets. Suppose we develop altruistic feelings, a disinterested love for some other human being, we get hit through it, every time. No, ma'am, it doesn't pay! This world is constructed for people with tough shells—all others pass at their own risk.... And I think maybe we'd do better by the world, and other people, and ourselves, if we recognized that—if we had a real philosophy of toughness, instead of what we've mistakenly developed.... The philosophy of tenderness is the fashion, of course—people profess it, are actually ashamed not to—and a few practise it. But what good is it? It doesn't fit the facts, that's all, doesn't work. Since we're flung out defenceless into a world that doesn't care a hang about us as individuals, we ought to grow a tough shell as quick as we can, and stay in it if we want to survive. The only philosophical solution is not to have personal feelings.... You must either not admit them at all, but live like a crab in your shell—or else you must transcend them. Mystics say this can be done—I've never tried it myself. They say you can merge your own individuality in the mass, so that you are simply a part of what is going on, and don't feel personal loss or pain much.... What say about that?"
He turned to Mary, and saw that she had not been listening. She was staring at the blue shimmering water—and suddenly she flushed deeply, painfully, and looked distressed.
"What's the matter?" asked Lavery sharply. "What's bothering you now?"
"It's about Nora—"
"Nora? What about her?"