“I don’t feel their absence, I don’t want them weeping around my death-bed and being polite about me afterwards, which I believe is the general notion. I’d far rather leave a thought behind me than a child. Other people can have children. No obligation, with England getting so chock-a-block and overrunning India for jobs.”
“Why don’t you marry Miss Quested?”
“Good God! why, the girl’s a prig.”
“Prig, prig? Kindly explain. Isn’t that a bad word?”
“Oh, I don’t know her, but she struck me as one of the more pathetic products of Western education. She depresses me.”
“But prig, Mr. Fielding? How’s that?”
“She goes on and on as if she’s at a lecture—trying ever so hard to understand India and life, and occasionally taking a note.”
“I thought her so nice and sincere.”
“So she probably is,” said Fielding, ashamed of his roughness: any suggestion that he should marry always does produce overstatements on the part of the bachelor, and a mental breeze. “But I can’t marry her if I wanted to, for she has just become engaged to the City Magistrate.”
“Has she indeed? I am so glad!” he exclaimed with relief, for this exempted him from the Marabar expedition: he would scarcely be expected to entertain regular Anglo-Indians.