"No, not quite. Oh, my dear Harry, I mean wouldn't you like to be in love a little with somebody? You could do it after you marry, of course, and you certainly will if you marry now, but it's not so—so comfortable." She looked at him with a sort of pity: her feeling was that he gave himself no holidays.
He sat silent a moment seeming to consider some picture which her suggestion conjured up.
"No good waiting for that," was his conclusion. "Somehow if I married and had children, it would seem to make everything more settled." His great pre-occupation was on him again. "We could do with some more money too," he added, "and, as I say, I'm inclined to like the girl."
"What's she like?"
"What you call a fine girl—tall—well made——"
"She'll be fat some day, I expect."
"Straight features, broadish face, dark, rather heavy brows—you know the sort of thing."
"Oh, Harry, I hate all that!"
"I don't; I rather like it." He was smoking meditatively, and jerked out what he had to say between the puffs. "I shouldn't like to mortgage Blent," he went on a moment later.