“I have no trouble,” she rejoined hastily. Then she went on as if she had decided to bare her soul to him.
“I will tell you, try to follow me.”
“All right, go ahead with your tragedy,” he replied banteringly.
“Do not laugh—be serious! You don’t know how vital this thing is to me.”
Clarinda moved her feet in a shuffling manner. “I believe,” she went on seriously, “that the flat is too small. It doesn’t give sufficient leverage. We live too much upon each other. It is true I love—I love everything in it. From the maid to the kitchenette. I have been so happy in it. Of course, for me it is not too small. I like it for that very reason. You can’t imagine how delightful it has been for me to sit here with no one but Peter, with not a sound from the outside—just Peter and I alone. Don’t you think love is queer? I mean queer in its effects on different kinds of people?”
As she spoke her father did not interrupt her, but his eyes followed every expression of her face.
“Peter and I,” she went on, “have lived here more than a year.” A combative tone came into her voice. “Peter is doing well. But then that is Peter. Of course, Peter is doing well. How could he do otherwise? You don’t know Peter, Father, as I know him. Peter is wonderful.”
“Then you are pleased with Peter?” her father said with a smile.
Clarinda did not answer his question. It struck her mind as frivolous. She continued as if no interruption had taken place. “Do you know, Father, Peter is cruel? I’ve been very happy here. A great change has come about I find, and many many times I’ve sat here in this corner and tried to analyze the reason for the change. I wonder whether it is my fault or whether it is just the ordinary course of human feeling. I ask myself whether I have failed, or has he failed? Is love only a satisfaction of a certain kind of natural law or is it a thing that can be sustained, I mean carried on forever? I wonder to myself whether there is really such a thing as love, and if not, what is it that produces such wonderful sensations? If after all it is only a myth. Why should people be sorry, or glad, or pleased at the approach of any one person? Why should I not be as happy, if love does not exist, with John Jones or John Smith or any other person? Anyway there is a great change. Peter has changed, I have changed. Everything is different. I can’t understand.”
Her father still smiled. He did not grasp how deeply she felt, nor could he understand precisely the conclusion she was drawing. He thought her a trifle incoherent. He was still satisfied, however, if she were given time he would find out. He remained silent and kept his eyes fastened upon her.