"Clearly not. Love has nothing whatever to do with marriage, in the statistical—the ordinary—sense of the term. When I say love, I mean love—not domestic affection. Marriage is a practical concern of mankind at large; Love is a personal experience of the very few. Think of our common phrases, such as 'choice of a wife'; think of the perfectly sound advice given by sage elders to the young who are thinking of marriage, implying deliberation, care. What have these things to do with love? You can no more choose to be a lover, than to be a poet. Nascitur non fit—oh yes, I know my Latin. Generally, the man or woman born for love is born for nothing else."
"A deplorable state of things!" exclaimed Irene, laughing.
"Yes—or no. Who knows? Such people ought to die young. But I don't say that it is invariably the case. To be capable of loving, and at the same time to have other faculties, and the will to use them—ah! There's your complete human being."
"I think——" Irene began, and stopped, her voice failing.
"You think, belle Irene?"
"Oh, I was going to say that all this seems to me sensible and right. It doesn't disturb me."
"Why should it?"
"I think I will tell you, Helen, that my motive in marrying is the same as yours was."
"I surmised it."
"But, you know, there the similarity will end. It is quite certain"—she laughed—"that I shall have no six-months' vacations. At present, I don't think I shall desire them."