“You’ve won, Peter,” and her lips trembled as she stopped for an instant. “It is the little things in life that count. It is the tiny pebble that changes the course of the stream. Yes, Peter, you’ve won—and at what a price.”
“It represents thousands and thousands, Clarinda,” he replied, without getting her point of view.
“Money—money—money! That is your fetish. You are carried away with gold! It will bury eventually all that is good in you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Money may be rotten and all that; but from my observation it is a most comfortable sort of possession.”
“Where is your soul?”
“Rot!” he exclaimed. “Why be trite? Souls in this world? A curious superstition handed down from no one knows where. A relic of fear. A thing to dangle before the eyes of the sick to help them die with a smile. A sop to the sick. A thing to dangle before the ignorant. Of what avail are they? Sometimes, I wonder whether you will ever graduate into the sort of woman I want. Must you always have a child’s point of view?”
“What sort of woman do you want, Peter?” she asked looking at him closely. “Since you’ve won this point, if you will tell me I will be that sort.”
Peter walked away from her a few steps then after a short while he turned and replied.
“I’ve thought a lot about the sort of woman I want. It is difficult to come to an exact conclusion. When I am idle I picture to myself the sort I think I should have. It is a very hard proposition.”
“Express it, Peter! You’ve never had difficulty on that score.”