“That depends upon what you call happiness,” said Redgrave.
But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. She had her views and expounded them.
“I mean common, all-round human happiness,” she said, “that makes you laugh to yourself when there's no particular reason for it. And I'd sooner Clytie have that and never touch a brush than paint the most world-convulsing pictures and be wretched.”
“But if she painted world-convulsing pictures, as you call them, she would be happy--much happier than under the other conditions.”
“Oh, no, she wouldn't!” she replied, with a conclusive nod. “You are quite wrong, my dear good friend. It is a secondary consideration to a woman whether she convulses the world or not. It might amuse and gratify her to do it _en passant_, but it is only _en passant_. Believe me. I don't give my sex away as a general rule, but I make you a present of that! So if you're glad,” she added with triumphant feminine logic, “that Clytie has made an unhappy marriage, I think it is simply detestable of you!”
So Redgrave, routed, retired in confusion; but he took his own ideas with him.
One Sunday evening, early in July, Mrs. Farquharson ran into the room where Clytie, just arrived, was taking off her wraps.
“I have been waiting by the window ever so long, watching for your carriage. You are quite late. I wanted to see you before you came into the drawing-room. Who do you think is here? Guess!”
Clytie saw at once by Caroline's face. A little thrill of gladness sent the colour to her cheeks and caused her eyes to sparkle as she paused with one glove half off and looked quickly at her friend.
Caroline nodded, glad at seeing that Clytie was pleased.
“I wanted to drop you a line, but how could I on Sunday in this postless town? George only condescended to tell me last night that he was coming. If we had as little sense as men, I wonder how on earth we should get on! He met him out a week ago and persuaded him.”
“It will be quite like an old evening, dear,” said Clytie. “I shall be so glad to see him.”
“It is strange you should not have met,” said Caroline; and then she added reflectively: “Well, perhaps it isn't.”
She had her own theories on the subject. And to say a woman has her own theories is to say a good deal.