Poor Marion! The
things I tried to put before her, my fermenting ideas about theology,
about Socialism, about aesthetics--the very words appalled her, gave her
the faint chill of approaching impropriety, the terror of a very present
intellectual impossibility. Then by an enormous effort I would suppress
myself for a time and continue a talk that made her happy, about
Smithie's brother, about the new girl who had come to the workroom,
about the house we would presently live in. But there we differed
a little. I wanted to be accessible to St. Paul's or Cannon Street
Station, and she had set her mind quite resolutely upon Eating.... It
wasn't by any means quarreling all the time, you understand. She liked
me to play the lover "nicely"; she liked the effect of going about--we
had lunches, we went to Earl's Court, to Kew, to theatres and concerts,
but not often to concerts, because, though Marion "liked" music,
she didn't like "too much of it," to picture shows--and there was a
nonsensical sort of babytalk I picked up--I forget where now--that
became a mighty peacemaker.
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