It seemed such a poor
sort of love, that. Yet that is precisely how we men and women do
love; taking only what gives us pleasure, repaying the rest with
anger. There would have arisen the unkind words that can never be
recalled; the ugly silences; the gradual withdrawing from one
another. I dared not face it.
"'It was not all selfishness. Truthfully I can say I thought more of
you than of myself. I wanted to keep the shadows of life away from
you. We men and women are like the flowers. It is in sunshine that
we come to our best. You were my hero. I wanted you to be great. I
wanted you to be surrounded by lovely dreams. I wanted your love to
be a thing holy, helpful to you.'
"It was a long letter. I have given you the gist of it."
Again there was a silence between us.
"You think she did right?" asked Robina.
"I cannot say," I answered; "there are no rules for Life, only for
the individual."
"I have read it somewhere," said Robina--"where was it?--'Love
suffers all things, and rejoices.'"
"Maybe in old Thomas Kempis. I am not sure," I said.
"It seems to me," said Robina, "that the explanation lies in that one
sentence of hers: 'I was not great enough to love ALL of you.'"
"It seems to me," I said, "that the whole art of marriage is the art
of getting on with the other fellow. It means patience, self-
control, forbearance. It means the laying aside of our self-conceit
and admitting to ourselves that, judged by eyes less partial than our
own, there may be much in us that is objectionable, that calls for
alteration.
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