“What,” said Oliver, “do you suggest?”
“Do you admit the evil?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!”
“But it’s in the age,” said Pauncefote. “We’re over-civilized. Money and
civilization have emasculated Things. Our crowd’s never up against it.
We don’t comfort each other because we don’t need comforting; and
gradually we’re losing the art. If you don’t use your arm, it’ll wither
away. There’s no ‘stern stuff’ in our lives, and how can you lug it in?
For years we’ve all been fightin’ to wash it out—to make Life into a
song-an’-dance show; and now we’ve done it. Well, an odd weddin’-chime
isn’t going to turn it back into Eden.” He thrust the chair out of his
way and began to pace the floor. Jean, smiling lazily, watched him with
half-closed eyes. “Once the man hunted—for food; and the woman kept the
cave—against his coming. And when he came, she fed him—bathed his
wounds—took his head in her lap. And he was her man. . . . And she was
his woman. . . . They didn’t want any Service to tell them that. But now
the wheel’s swung round to the other extreme. Hardship and peril are
out, and luxury’s in. Nature’s been swamped by Art. Emotion’s a branch
of Nature, and it’s withered away. . . . If ever the man was late, the
woman wept for joy to see him alive. You don’t do that because you
assume I’ve stopped somewhere to have a drink.”
“Why did I dress to-night to please Pat Lafone?”