It was difficult
for Clara to think of her father as a rabbit, but the notion that Alfred
Buckley was like a hound stayed with her. "The wolf and the wolfhound," she
thought absent-mindedly.
Clara was twenty-three and seemed to herself mature. She did not intend
wasting any more time going to school and did not want to be a professional
woman, like Kate Chanceller. There was something she did want and in a
way some man, she did not know what man it would be, was concerned in the
matter. She was very hungry for love, but might have got that from another
woman. Kate Chanceller would have loved her. She was not unconscious of
the fact that their friendship had been something more than friendship.
Kate loved to hold Clara's hand and wanted to kiss and caress her. The
inclination had been put down by Kate herself, a struggle had gone on in
her, and Clara had been dimly conscious of it and had respected Kate for
making it.
Why? Clara asked herself that question a dozen times during the early weeks
of that summer. Kate Chanceller had taught her to think. When they were
together Kate did both the thinking and the talking, but now Clara's mind
had a chance. There was something back of her desire for a man. She wanted
something more than caresses. There was a creative impulse in her that
could not function until she had been made love to by a man. The man she
wanted was but an instrument she sought in order that she might fulfill
herself.
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