“It can’t be at fault, here.” The voice was neutral as before. “Something tells us both it would be wrong––to do––as we want to do.” 113
Once more they sat down facing each other, the desk between them as at first.
“Artificial convention, I tell you again.” In motion graceful as nature the woman extended her hand, palm upward, on the polished desk top. “How could we be other than right? What do we mean by right, anyway? Is there any judge higher than our individual selves, and don’t they tell us pleasure is the chief aim of life and as such must be right?”
The muscles at the angle of the man’s jaw tightened involuntarily.
“But pleasure is not the chief end of life.”
“What is, then?”
“Development––evolution.”
“Evolution to what?” she insisted.
“That we cannot answer as yet. Future generations must and will give answer.”
“It’s for this then that you deny yourself?” A shade almost of contempt was in the questioning voice.