“Oh, but that’s just the other extreme,” she said. “The man’s a—what do you call those birds at the Zoo, all colours with little eyes set like jewels and enormous beaks? I know—toucans. The man’s a toucan.”
“But he’s over six feet and a first-class cricketer,” I said.
“Yes, I like that,” she said. “I should like him to be good at games. But he mustn’t be grotesque.”
“Surely you can mention some one who comes at any rate nearer your ideal? What about”—I did my best to make my voice sound natural—“what about Ronnie?”
I did not look at her, so I cannot say whether Rose blushed or not.
“Ronnie,” she said meditatively. “Yes, I like Ronnie. Ronnie is a dear. But—”
“Yes?”
“Ronnie is to play with,” she said. “He’s not for a husband. I should want my husband to be stronger than that.”
“And then,” I said, quite normal again, “there are other things besides looks and character. There’s employment, for example. Do you want him to be rich and idle or do you want him to be busy? And if busy, what do you want him to do?”
“Yes,” said Rose, “I want him to be busy. I want him to be away all the day, so that his return will be an event to both of us. I don’t believe in husbands muddling about at home between breakfast and dinner. I’m sure father would have been happier if his studio had been somewhere else and he had to go away to it and remain away. He got tired of the house—I can see now, although I didn’t know then—instead of looking on it as a harbour of refuge after his work was done. That’s what made him so restless and forced him to go away so much: that and his love of seeing new and beautiful things.