“St. Paul’s method,” said Peter.
“I was talking to a fellow the other day,” said Ames. “He’d got a curious idea. Something in it perhaps. He said that every one was clean-minded and romantic, that’s how he put it, about sixteen or seventeen. Even if you’ve been a bit dirty as a schoolboy you sort of clean up then. Adolescence, in fact. And he said you ought to fall in love and pair off then. Kind of Romeo and Juliet business. First love and all that.”
“Juliet wasn’t exactly Romeo’s first love,” said Peter.
“Young beggar!” said Ames. “But, anyhow, that was only by way of illustration. His idea was that we’d sort of put off marriage and all that sort of thing later and later. Twenty-eight. Thirty. Thirty-five even. And that put us wrong. We kind of curdled and fermented. Spoilt with keeping. Larked about with girls we didn’t care for. Demi-vierge stunts and all that. Got promiscuous. Let anything do. His idea was you’d got to pair off with a girl and look after her, and she look after you. And keep faith. And stop all stray mucking about. ’Settle down to a healthy sexual peace,’ he said.”
Ames paused. “Something in it?”
“Ever read the Life of Lord Herbert of Cherbury?” asked Peter.
“Never.”
“He worked out that theory quite successfully. Married before he went up to Oxford. There’s a lot in it. Sex. Delayed. Fretting. Overflowing. Getting experimental and nasty.... But that doesn’t exhaust the question. The Old Experimenter sits there——”
“What experimenter?”
“The chap who started it all. There’s no way yet of fitting it up perfectly. We’ve got to make it fit.”