“I should like to ask you a question in turn, however,” the parson said, as if desirous of meeting Shelton on his low ground: “How do you justify marriage if it is not to follow the laws of nature?”
“I can only tell you what I personally feel.”
“My dear sir, you forget that a woman's chief delight is in her motherhood.”
“I should have thought it a pleasure likely to pall with too much repetition. Motherhood is motherhood, whether of one or of a dozen.”
“I 'm afraid,” replied the parson, with impatience, though still keeping on his guest's low ground, “your theories are not calculated to populate the world.”
“Have you ever lived in London?” Shelton asked. “It always makes me feel a doubt whether we have any right to have children at all.”
“Surely,” said the parson with wonderful restraint, and the joints of his fingers cracked with the grip he had upon his chair, “you are leaving out duty towards the country; national growth is paramount!”
“There are two ways of looking at that. It depends on what you want your country to become.”
“I did n't know,” said the parson—fanaticism now had crept into his smile—“there could be any doubt on such a subject.”
The more Shelton felt that commands were being given him, the more controversial he naturally became—apart from the merits of this subject, to which he had hardly ever given thought.