The woman laughed nervously, but there was a look of fear in her eyes.
“Why should I be frightened of you?”
“Because I tell you the truth. I don’t keep up the foolish old pretences by which men and women hide themselves from each other. You cannot hide from me, Clare.”
“You seem to strip my soul bare,” said Clare and when the man laughed at her she said: “Yes, I am frightened of you.”
“It is because you are like all suburban women,” said Gerald, “brought up in this environment of hypocritical virtue and false sentiment. You are frightened at the verities of life.”
Clare Heywood gave a deep, quivering sigh. “Life is a tragic thing, Gerald,” she said. “Life is a jolly thing if one makes the best of it, if one fulfils one’s own nature.”
“One’s own nature is generally bad.”
“Never mind,” said Gerald cheerfully. “It is one’s own. Bad or good, it must find expression instead of being smothered or strangled. Life is tragic only to those who are afraid of it. Don’t be afraid, Clare. Do the things you want to do.”
“There is nothing I want to do,” said Clare wearily. “Nothing except to find peace.”
“Exactly. Peace. How can you find peace, my poor Clare, in this stuffy life of yours—in this daily denial of your own nature? There are heaps of things you want.”