But
do not repeat this foolish theory about love which he introduces into
Peters' narrative. The wise, practical, and puissant residents of that
Corinthian Capital of Brains--I refer to London--will know better. Oh,
yes; women are true!--very true! Better than wealth--pshaw! better than
empire--pooh! That nonsense will pass at twenty-five; at forty a man has
some brains. The 'constancy' of women--that gets me! Why, sir, I once
loved three women at the same time, and not one of the three was true to
me--yet Bainbridge talks of a woman's constancy, single-heartedness, and
such chimerical stuff--the kind of stuff, that, with youth, takes the
place of the recently discarded nursery fiction. I think of the hundreds
of women that I have loved, beginning in my early boyhood, passing
through my adolescence to the acme of my powers, and even now as I stand
on the verge of my desuetude! Surely some one of these many women would
have been constant, if women have any constancy in their make-up. Show
me a woman howling out her life on _my_ grave, and then I'll believe
Bainbridge. But I know all about Bainbridge. I know where he goes the
evenings that he doesn't come here. Never mind--I'm silent as the grave.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248