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Page 88
"I think you had better be going back," he said. "It's rather late.
They may be missing you."
Maud laughed happily.
"I don't mind now what they do. But I suppose dinners must be
dressed for, whatever happens." They moved together to the door.
"What a lovely night after all! I never thought the rain would stop
in this world. It's like when you're unhappy and think it's going
on for ever."
"Yes," said George.
Maud held out her hand.
"Good night, Mr. Bevan."
"Good night."
He wondered if there would be any allusion to the earlier passages
of their interview. There was none. Maud was of the class whose
education consists mainly of a training in the delicate ignoring of
delicate situations.
"Then you will go and see Geoffrey?"
"Tomorrow."
"Thank you ever so much."
"Not at all."
George admired her. The little touch of formality which she had
contrived to impart to the conversation struck just the right note,
created just the atmosphere which would enable them to part without
weighing too heavily on the deeper aspect of that parting.
"You're a real friend, Mr. Bevan."
"Watch me prove it."
"Well, I must rush, I suppose. Good night!"
"Good night!"
She moved off quickly across the field. Darkness covered her. The
dog in the distance had begun to howl again. He had his troubles,
too.
CHAPTER 20.
Trouble sharpens the vision. In our moments of distress we can see
clearly that what is wrong with this world of ours is the fact that
Misery loves company and seldom gets it. Toothache is an unpleasant
ailment; but, if toothache were a natural condition of life, if all
mankind were afflicted with toothache at birth, we should not
notice it. It is the freedom from aching teeth of all those with
whom we come in contact that emphasizes the agony. And, as with
toothache, so with trouble. Until our private affairs go wrong, we
never realize how bubbling over with happiness the bulk of mankind
seems to be. Our aching heart is apparently nothing but a desert
island in an ocean of joy.
George, waking next morning with a heavy heart, made this discovery
before the day was an hour old. The sun was shining, and birds sang
merrily, but this did not disturb him. Nature is ever callous to
human woes, laughing while we weep; and we grow to take her
callousness for granted. What jarred upon George was the infernal
cheerfulness of his fellow men. They seemed to be doing it on
purpose--triumphing over him--glorying in the fact that, however
Fate might have shattered him, they were all right.
People were happy who had never been happy before. Mrs. Platt, for
instance. A grey, depressed woman of middle age, she had seemed
hitherto to have few pleasures beyond breaking dishes and relating
the symptoms of sick neighbours who were not expected to live
through the week. She now sang. George could hear her as she
prepared his breakfast in the kitchen. At first he had had a hope
that she was moaning with pain; but this was dispelled when he had
finished his toilet and proceeded downstairs. The sounds she
emitted suggested anguish, but the words, when he was able to
distinguish them, told another story. Incredible as it might seem,
on this particular morning Mrs. Platt had elected to be
light-hearted. What she was singing sounded like a dirge, but
actually it was "Stop your tickling, Jock!" And, later, when she
brought George his coffee and eggs, she spent a full ten minutes
prattling as he tried to read his paper, pointing out to him a
number of merry murders and sprightly suicides which otherwise he
might have missed. The woman went out of her way to show him that
for her, if not for less fortunate people, God this morning was in
His heaven and all was right in the world.
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