He cannot be too critical, I guess. If
he is to exist in a certain social order of our civilization unburdened
by great doubts and deep glooms he must not shiver when his wife tinkles
her champagne glass against another. He must learn to appreciate the
sinuous beauties of the cabaret dancer, and must train himself to take
no offence when he sees shimmering wines tilted down white throats. He
must train himself to many things, just as he trains himself to
classical music and grand opera. To do these things he must forget, as
much as he can, the sweet melodies and the sweeter women who are sinking
into oblivion together. He must accept life as a Grand Piano tuned by a
new sort of Tuning Master, and unless he can dance to its music he is a
misfit. That is what my friend said to extenuate _her_. She fitted into
this kind of life splendidly. He was in the other groove. She loved
light, laughter, wine, song, and excitement. He, the misfit, loved his
books, his work, and his home. His greatest joy would have been to go
with her, hand in hand, through some wonderful cathedral, pointing out
its ancient glories and mysteries to her. He wanted aloneness--just they
two. Such was his idea of love. And she--wanted other things.
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