Psychological Love.

(By S. W. Lane).

Dr. John Wilson, Professor of Psychology at the Dominion University and entitled to half-a-dozen letters after his name, which indicated to the people who understand such things that he was a Doctor of Philosophy, Psychology, and so forth, was in love.

His career would make interesting copy-book headings. Reared in the stifling atmosphere of snobbish, genteel poverty; destined for the still more stultifying life of a bank-clerk, and oppressed with an environment certainly not conducive to scientific research, he was able in spite of those difficulties to become a world-renowned pyschologist. His knowledge of complexes, reactions, neurones and “associations” was profound. That such a fund of information did not spoil him was due to an inherent fine personality and a saving sense of humour. Most scientists are of humble disposition—they realise their limitations—but they mostly have the advantage of being reared in congenial surroundings, whereas in John's case he had to overcome much opposition. Of the gentler sex, like most male psychologists, he knew little. Give him a factory and the workers, and in a few hours’ time he could grade those workers and arrange the factory to the utmost efficiency. But of the tender passions, well, as a young lady who was studying biology put it, when he looked at a girl she felt as if “he was examining an interesting, but repulsive specimen.”

John would not have won a male beauty contest, yet one felt that here was a man good to look upon. A well shaped head, ears nicely flattened by a careful mother—many people have their appearance completely spoilt by enormous “wings,” caused through hats being jammed on their heads when young by silly parents—light brown eyes, a solid chin, and the finely cut lips of the artist, made a face which, in spite of its habitual seriousness, was very pleasing to behold. Of medium stature, John, like most New Zealanders, had not neglected athletics in his youth, so that now approaching the middle thirties he could walk from his home to the college without regrets and sighs for some conveyance to take him there.

The lady of his choice was Clair Denis, Assistant Teacher of Economics and History. A dainty personage was little Clair. Although there were grey strands in her golden tinged hair and tiny lines at the corner of her steady blue eyes caused by much study, she was one of the prettiest women at the college. Her mind was delightful. Ever frank, scorning conventions, yet intensely moral and ethical, wonderfully sympathetic and understanding; but love had passed by her on his rounds finding no use for his arrows, as yet.

I was an old friend of the family, but of coarser mould, and I knew better than to aspire to her hand. Half the fellows about the town were in love with her, mistaking her understanding of them for sympathy for them. Never shall I forget the day she asked me to take her on board a cargo vessel with a “coolie” crew in order to study the living conditions of the Lascars. She “wanted to know” as our American friends say. John heard her say one day, “I am not interested in men, as men, but for what they do or say. Henry the Eighth was not attractive, but his actions made a great impression. If a man wishes to interest me he must be interesting himself.” It was that very keenness of perception that prevented the fellows from declaring themselves and made them despair of interesting her.

Clair rather admired John, both for his attainments and for his personality—“the sum total of the characteristics”—she knew with a woman's intuition that he liked her companionship, but the depth of that feeling she was unable to gauge, so that she consented readily when he asked her to go on a car trip into the country with him one fine Saturday afternoon.

Before the appointed time he was waiting for her, a pleasurable tingle of excitement running through him. Whatever the outcome, she would never be disinterested—a thing a man in love hates.

When she arrived, he carefully tucked her in the neat little car and drove off.

“Is there any special place you would like to go?” he asked.

“No, just anywhere you like,” she replied.

“Then I will take you to my favourite places,” he gravely said.

They chatted casually on various subjects as they rode along and time passed pleasantly. Turning down a lane bordered by high trees and of solitary aspect, the car gave a few coughs and groans, then stopped. John turned off the switches and sat still, looking at Clair with a calm expression on his face, though his pulse was going a little faster.

“What is the matter?” asked Clair. “I heard nothing break.”

“No, nothing has broken—yet,” replied John, still looking at her.

What the dickens was the man up to, she thought, a trifle annoyed? Was he working the old stunt of “out of gas?” Did he have the impudence to try to flirt with her? Perhaps the fellow was going to propose to her? For the life of her she could not help a slow flush mounting her neck and face.

“Out of gas?” she asked sweetly, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Yes and no. None in the tank, but I always keep some in a tin for emergencies,” he replied.

As he refilled the tank, he remembered the flush with satisfaction, she could not be indifferent to him if she showed emotion. Presently they drove

The Waimate Creek. A picturesque scene in South Canterbury.

page 44 page 45 off again, with Clair a little puzzled, so that the looked at John with new interest. His face was one to trust and she had always liked him. Dimly she wondered what married life would be like, probably very pleasant, she thought, with a man like John.

Just then as they turned into a secluded nook the car gave a grunt as the pistons eased back and again stopped.

John sat still, apparently lost in thought—so did Clair.

Neither spoke for a few moments, then Clair asked quietly, “Sparking plugs broken?”

“Yes,” said John, “I have a few spares in the box.”

Taking off his coat the placed it gently on the seat, stealing a glance into Clair's face as he did so. What he saw made him no wiser.

Replacing the plugs the car was soon ready again and John turned for home. She seemed to be taking things very well, thought John, and perhaps the next occasion might be the great and final one.

It was getting dark, and as John switched on the lights, a vapour could be seen coming from the radiator cap.

“Water's down,” cried Clair, “but, of course, you have some spare?” she added.

Was the time now, he wondered, but that little sarcasm stopped him. Not that he minded criticism, sarcastic or otherwise; he would be a poor psychologist if he did, but he wanted to be sure. Slowly he got out of the car, and poured the water into the radiator tank.

Clair shifted into the driver's seat and started the engine, then leaning slightly out of the window she said: “Dr. Wilson, you may or you may not Love me. However, when you learn to propose as an intending husband should, I may consider it. In the meantime I'll drive the car back and leave you to study the psychology of the thing. Should the car break down again no doubt I'll find spares.‘Goodbye,’ and letting in the clutch, Clair sped away.

John stared in amazement after the departing car. Then he grinned as the humour of the situation struck him. A few miles walk would not hurt him. Then the psychologist in him began to work. He would wait, if she cared she would come back, if she did not it would make no difference to the situation. Sitting down on the grassy bank, he took out his old briar and settled down to wait.

Half-an-hour later the distant drumming of a car's engine drew his attention. Was it his car? Yes, he could tell by the lamps. That near side wanted a new globe.

The car came up, wheeled round and stopped. Clair sat with bowed head at the wheel, her heart beating fast.

John sprang up, all the psychologist gone, leaving just a man wanting a mate. Pulling open the door, he sat beside Clair, put his arm gently round her and murmured: “Darling, you came back.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and their lips met in the good old-fashioned way.