He thinks it wise to sound a warning note. ‘Of course you must give them a little time.’
‘Robert, Robert. Not another minute. That’s not the way people ever love me. They mustn’t think me over first or anything of that sort. If they do I’m lost; they must love me at once.’
‘A good many have done that,’ Robert says, surveying her quizzically as if she were one of Amy’s incompleted works.
‘You are not implying, Robert, that I ever—. If I ever did I always told you about it afterwards, didn’t I? And I certainly never did it until I was sure you were comfortable.’
‘You always wrapped me up first,’ he admits.
‘They were only boys, Robert—poor lonely boys. What are you looking so solemn about, Robert?’
‘I was trying to picture you as you will be when you settle down.’
She is properly abashed. ‘Not settled down yet—with a girl nearly grown up. And yet it’s true; it’s the tragedy of Alice Grey.’ She pulls his hair. ‘Oh, husband, when shall I settle down?’
‘I can tell you exactly—in a year from to-day. Alice, when I took you away to that humdrummy Indian station I was already quite a middle-aged bloke. I chuckled over your gaiety, but it gave me lumbago to try to be gay with you. Poor old girl, you were like an only child who has to play alone. When for one month in the twelve we went to—to—where the boys were, it was like turning you loose in a sweet-stuff shop.’
‘Robert, darling, what nonsense you do talk.’