“So you think I must be in love—you can’t conceive that my efforts to be beautiful should be inspired by anything but the wish to please some man! Jen, you’re like all men, but, I’d hoped, only a few women—you can’t imagine a woman wanting to be beautiful for her own sake. Oh, my dear, it’s just because I’m not in love that I must please myself. If I was in love I shouldn’t bother half so much—I’d know I pleased somebody else, which one can do with much less trouble than one can please oneself. I shouldn’t bother about my own exactions any more. The day you see me with untidy hair and an unpowdered skin you’ll know I’m in love with somebody who loves me, and haven’t got to please myself any more.”
“But, Mary ... there’s Charles. Don’t you love Charles?”
“No, I don’t. I know it’s very silly of me not to love the man my husband’s jealous of, but such is the fact. Nobody but Julian would have made a row about Charles—he’s just a pleasant, well-bred, oldish man, who’s simple enough to be restful. He’s more than twenty years older than I am, which I know isn’t everything, but counts for a good deal. I liked going about with him because he’s so remote from all the fatigue and fret and worry of that side of life. It was almost like going about with another woman, except that one had the advantage of a man’s protection and point of view.”
“Does he love you?”
“I don’t think so for a moment. In fact I’m quite sure he doesn’t. He likes taking out a pretty woman, and we’ve enough differences to make us interesting to each other, but there the matter ends. As it happens, I’m much too fond of him to fall in love with him. It’s not a thing I’d ever do with a man I liked as a friend. I know what love is, you see, and not so long ago.”
“Who was that?”
“Julian,” said Mary dryly.
A feeling of panic and hopelessness came over Jenny.
“Oh, God ... then one can never know.”