“I wasn’t married when I met you first,” she reminded him. “The truth of the matter is, you, like the majority of middle-aged bachelors, only appreciate the fruit which grows beyond your reach.”
“Middle-aged!” he protested. “Come now! I’m only thirty-five.”
“And seventy is the limit the Psalmist gives us. You have wasted your time, my friend.”
“Yes,” he agreed abruptly, and sat a little straighten, “I’ll have to go the pace,” he said, “in order to catch up.”
“You can make the most of the years that are left you,” Mrs Carruthers replied crushingly, “but you can never catch up. If people realised that in their youth, they wouldn’t waste their time as they do.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so depressing,” he expostulated.
“I’m not I’m merely lamenting your lost opportunities. I’m for early marriages, and big families, and bother the cost.”
“That’s all very fine. But big families can’t be launched indiscriminately, and flung on the State.”
“People are so prudent nowadays,” she said; “they miss a lot of happiness. A jolly struggle is preferable to discreet luxury, with a will at the finish, leaving everything to the stranger or organised charities. I was one of fourteen, and there wasn’t a jollier or a poorer home in the Colony.”
She laughed, and thrust forward a small, misshapen foot.