"But where to find one worthy of him? She must be capable of rising to his level; rather, of continuing there."
"You are sure that is necessary? Now, in my experience," the Doctor inclined his head to one side and rubbed his chin softly between thumb and forefinger—a favourite trick of his when diagnosing a case—"in my observation, rather, some disparity of temper, taste, character, may almost be postulated of a completely happy alliance; as in chemistry you bring together an acid and an alkali, and, always provided they don't explode—"
"He would never be satisfied with that. Believe me, the woman he condescends upon must, in return for that happy privilege, surrender her whole fate into his hands. Beneath his deference to our sex he carries an imperious will, and would demand no less."
"There is a little bit of that about him, now you mention it," assented the Doctor.
"But let us not cheat—" Miss Marty checked herself suddenly. "Let us not vex ourselves with any such apprehensions. He will never marry, I am convinced. I cannot imagine him in the light of a parent—with offspring, for instance. Rather, when I see him in his regimentals, or, again, in his mayoral robe and chain—you have noticed how they become him?—"
The Doctor admitted, with a faint sigh, that he had.
"Well, then, he puts me in mind of that—what d'you call it, which the poets tell us is reproduced but once in several hundred years?"
"The blossoming aloe?" suggested the Doctor.
Miss Marty shook her head. "It's not a plant—it's a kind of bird. It begins with 'P, h,'—and you think of Dublin."
"Let me see—Phelim? No, I have it! Phoenix."