“Doubtless it has,” Redgrave replied earnestly. “But it is not final. If she lives within herself again, she will recover spirituality and grip—both strengthened by experience and suffering. That is the most precious knowledge, Mrs. Farquharson, which we have bought with sorrow.”
“Then mine must be very worthless,” cried Caroline. “And I'm very glad of it. I would rather be ignorant and happy than wise and sad. And I could wish the same for poor Clytie. I can understand the good and beautiful things of this world as well as most people, but I don't believe in art to all that extent. I may be a Philistine,—God forbid it, but perhaps I am,—and I like to see people happy.”
“That depends upon what you call happiness,” said Redgrave.
But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. She had her views and expounded them.
“I mean common, all-round human happiness,” she said, “that makes you laugh to yourself when there's no particular reason for it. And I'd sooner Clytie have that and never touch a brush than paint the most world-convulsing pictures and be wretched.”
“But if she painted world-convulsing pictures, as you call them, she would be happy—much happier than under the other conditions.”
“Oh, no, she wouldn't!” she replied, with a conclusive nod. “You are quite wrong, my dear good friend. It is a secondary consideration to a woman whether she convulses the world or not. It might amuse and gratify her to do it en passant, but it is only en passant. Believe me. I don't give my sex away as a general rule, but I make you a present of that! So if you're glad,” she added with triumphant feminine logic, “that Clytie has made an unhappy marriage, I think it is simply detestable of you!”
So Redgrave, routed, retired in confusion; but he took his own ideas with him.
One Sunday evening, early in July, Mrs. Farquharson ran into the room where Clytie, just arrived, was taking off her wraps.
“I have been waiting by the window ever so long, watching for your carriage. You are quite late. I wanted to see you before you came into the drawing-room. Who do you think is here? Guess!”