d so she's dismissed to her
motherhood, as if that must be quite enough for her. Dion, Dion, the
world doesn't know, or doesn't care, how women suffer. Women don't speak
about such things. But I am telling you because I don't want to have
secrets from you. I have suffered. Perhaps I have some pride in me.
Anyhow, I don't care to go about complaining. You know that. You must
have found that out in London. I keep my secrets, but not from you."

She put her white cheek against his brown one.

"It's only the two lives joined together that make life complete for
a woman who is complete, who isn't lopsided, lacking in something
essential, something that nature intends. I am a complete woman, and I'm
not ashamed of it. Do you think I ought to be?"

She sighed against his cheek.

"You are a courageous woman," he said; "I do know that."

"Don't _you_ test my courage. Perhaps I'm getting tired of being
courageous."

She put her thin lips against his.

"It's acting--deception I hate," he murmured. "With a boy especially I
like always to be quite open."

Again he thought of Robin and of his old ideal of a father's relation
to his son; he thought of his preparation to be worthy of fatherhood,
worthy to guide a boy's steps in the path towards a noble manhood. And a
terrible sense of the irony of life almost overcame him. For a moment
he seemed to catch a glimpse of the Creator laughing in darkness at the
aspiration of men; for a moment he was beset by the awful conviction
that the world is ruled by a malign Deity.

"All the time Jimmy is at Buyukderer we'll just be friends," said the
husky voice against his cheek.

The sophistry of her remark struck home to him, but he made no comment
upon it.

"There are white deceptions," she continued, "and black deceptions, as
there are white and black lies. Whom are we hurting, you and I?"

"Whom are we hurting?" he said, releasing himself from her.

And he thought of God in a different way--in Rosamund's way.

"Yes?"

He looked at her as if he were going to speak, but he said nothing. He
felt that if he answered she would not understand, and her face made him
doubtful. Which view of life was the right one, Rosamund's or Cynthia
Clarke's? Rosamund had been pitiless to him and Cynthia Clarke was
merciful. She put her arms round his neck when he was in misery, she
wanted him despite the tragedy that was his perpetual companion. Perhaps
her view of life was right. It was a good w