“Clarinda,” he went on, “you probably don’t know that as a rule men love intensely. Their love is a curious stable condition of mind. It consumes them. It becomes part of their fibre. You’ll find out later in life, when you’ve had greater experience, that men are monogamous, with polygamous inclinations. That statement is a bit involved. More than likely you don’t get what I mean quite clearly. Of course, Clarinda, I am speaking about ordinary men, the right-thinking and the right-doing sort.” He stopped for an instant as if deliberating, and finally went on:
“Still, Clarinda, even with the sort I have in mind, they are curious, because they are human. They build the foundations of their lives with no uncertainty. After it is done, they arrive at the idea that what they have built is stable. They forget. Men, my dear child, are essentially constructionists. It doesn’t follow because they are complacent that they love any the less. It might be advanced really that they love with fiercer intensity. The reason for this is that men are removed only a slight degree from the animal. It is true they are covered with a slight veneer which is called civilization. Just like animals, anything that comes into their lives becomes part of them. As I have indicated, love gets into their blood, bone and sinew. Peter loves you just the same. Disabuse your mind of this idea that he doesn’t love you. It is all foolishness. All your fears are founded on sand. This condition is not your fault. It is the natural course that love always follows and nearly all men arrive at the same end.”
Clarinda sat very still and listened intently. In her heart as she had always done she felt her father was the greatest being in the world. Even at times greater than Peter. This admission cost her much, but for years he had been her bulwark. Upon his judgment her life had been founded. During her young days she had looked upon him as an oracle. And now in this crisis, after he had spoken she was sure he was just as she thought.
“Your situation is clear to me,” he continued. “Suppose I draw you a picture of your position.” He paused for a moment. “I have in mind what occurred. Let us suppose for example, that every morning when Peter left you before he went out of the door he kissed you. You lived on that kiss until he came back in the evening. It might be before he went away he held you for an instant in his arms and patted your lovely head. And then after he had gone and had gotten out on the street, you ran to the window and waved your hand to him as he went around the corner. You treasured that final wave. Peter is only a man. Peter is not a bad sort. Now, how is that for the first part of my picture?”
“Father! Father!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful you are.”
“Let’s go further with our picture,” he began again. “Now what did you do? Being inexpressibly foolish, on that very first day this terrible thing happened here is what I see. In this picture you are a stricken thing. Slowly you go back into the room, with the weight of the world upon you. The house is all drab. You don’t rush to the window. Oh, no, not you, instead you weep and the tears roll down your face. You feel right then as if all the world has fallen apart, and there is only a great void.
“In your misery you felt, for this was real to you, sick at heart. You threw yourself down upon the divan and sank into a terrible condition. This lasted throughout the day, until Peter came home. When he saw you, so sad and dreary and your face be-streaked with tears, he took you in his arms—and right then—the sun came back. Your heart beat with joy. How’s that, Clarinda?”
“But why should it happen?” Clarinda burst forth. “Why should Peter change? I am just the same. I am just as young. Just as beautiful. Peter always says I am beautiful. My physical self is just the same. I don’t believe I am any the less attractive or less appealing to his man’s side. Peter forgets. He forgets often. Why should he feel that he can go out and leave me as he does? Why should he not kiss me every morning? I don’t forget.”
“All that is true, Clarinda,” her father went on. “The reason for its happening, I have explained. But there is something else. It is a curious psychological fact. Women are different from men, for the reason that nature has so provided. I can’t answer this question. It would take too long, and even if I did, you might not understand the fine distinction I would wish to draw. There are so many shades, so many complexes, so many difficulties in the way of an understandable explanation. The question is too deep for me to discuss. You don’t have a proper grasp of the human factor as it is applied to me. The shadows, Clarinda, upon your life are all imaginary. They don’t exist really.”
The conversation died, and Clarinda sat with her father in complete silence. She endeavored to make him say more, but he would not. He looked into the fire and watched the flame go up the chimney. The clock on the mantel struck the hours musically, and the wind without blew with an angry insistence. But Clarinda was at peace. Her head was clear and she saw distinctly into the future. The seconds of time went into minutes and the minutes grew into hours. The persistent ticking of the clock was at last broken by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, as if they bore someone in great haste. Then the door opened and Peter bounded into the room and filled it completely.