He shrugged his shoulders.
“Their talk about women makes me sick—I feel in that matter we’ve got the pull over them. When men of our own set get on the subject, it’s different altogether, even at its worst. But I sometimes think that this is because their ideal of women is really so high that they don’t look upon a certain class of them as women at all.”
“You think their ideal of women in general is high?”
“Yes, that’s why their women are either good or bad. They won’t stand the intervening stages the way we do. They expect a great deal of the women they make their wives.”
“I suppose that a friendship between a woman of our class and a man of theirs would be much more difficult than a friendship between two men of different classes.”
“It would be quite impossible. They don’t understand friendship between men and women for one thing. I’m not sure that they haven’t got too much sense.”
Jenny rose and moved away. She found the conversation vaguely disturbing. Though, after all, she cried impatiently to herself, why should she? They hadn’t been discussing Godfrey—only the men where Gervase worked, who belonged altogether to a different class. But Godfrey, yeoman farmer of Fourhouses, solid, comfortable, respectable, able to buy land from impoverished Alard ... why should she think of him as in a class beneath her? Her parents would think so certainly, but that was because their ideas had grown old and stiff with Alard’s age ... mentally Alard was suffering from arterial sclerosis ... oh, for some new blood!
§ 9
Peter was vexed with himself for having forgotten Godfrey’s appointment—not that he thought his forgetfulness would jeopardise the business between Conster and Fourhouses, but such a lapse pointed degradingly to causes beneath it. He had been careless and forgetful as a farmer because he was unhappy as a husband. His private life was hurting him and its convulsions had put his business life out of order.
On his return from Canterbury there was a reconciliation between him and Vera. His long day of futile loneliness had broken his spirit—he could endure their estrangement no longer, and in order to make peace was willing to stoop to treacheries which in the morning he had held beneath his honour. He had made Stella a burnt offering to peace. No—he said to Vera—he had never really loved her—she had just been “one of the others” before he met his wife.... He took her glowing memory and put it in the prison house where he had shut up the loves of a month and a week and a day ... he saw her in that frail company, looking at him from between the bars, telling him that she did not belong there. But he spoke to her roughly in his heart—“Yes you do—you’re one of the thieves who stole a bit of the love I was keeping for Vera—just that.”