“It’s acting—deception I hate,” he murmured. “With a boy especially I like always to be quite open.”
Again he thought of Robin and of his old ideal of a father’s relation to his son; he thought of his preparation to be worthy of fatherhood, worthy to guide a boy’s steps in the path towards a noble manhood. And a terrible sense of the irony of life almost overcame him. For a moment he seemed to catch a glimpse of the Creator laughing in darkness at the aspiration of men; for a moment he was beset by the awful conviction that the world is ruled by a malign Deity.
“All the time Jimmy is at Buyukderer we’ll just be friends,” said the husky voice against his cheek.
The sophistry of her remark struck home to him, but he made no comment upon it.
“There are white deceptions,” she continued, “and black deceptions, as there are white and black lies. Whom are we hurting, you and I?”
“Whom are we hurting?” he said, releasing himself from her.
And he thought of God in a different way—in Rosamund’s way.
“Yes?”
He looked at her as if he were going to speak, but he said nothing. He felt that if he answered she would not understand, and her face made him doubtful. Which view of life was the right one, Rosamund’s or Cynthia Clarke’s? Rosamund had been pitiless to him and Cynthia Clarke was merciful. She put her arms round his neck when he was in misery, she wanted him despite the tragedy that was his perpetual companion. Perhaps her view of life was right. It was a good working view, anyhow, and was no doubt held by many people.
“We can base our lives on truth,” she continued, as he said nothing. “On being true to ourselves. That is the great truth. But we can’t always tell it to all the casual people about us, or even to those who are closely in our lives, as for instance Jimmy is in mine. They wouldn’t understand. But some day Jimmy will be able to understand.”