“If a man has done nothing, from choice, up to thirty,” she said to herself, reflectively, “the chances are that, if the power of choice remains, he will continue to do nothing.”
“I am so glad you are pleased with Baltimore, Margaret,” said her cousin, interrupting her reverie. “How do you think you should like it as a residence?”
“Oh, I should like my home, wherever it chanced to be,” said Margaret. “It is people, and not places, that make one’s happiness, I think. I am sure I could be happy wherever my dear father and mother were.”
“But you cannot have them always. By-and-by some one must take their place.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “I suppose so, but I try not to think of that.”
“Do you never think of marriage, Margaret? I suppose all young ladies must.”
“Not often, as applied to myself,” she said.
“Don’t you think matrimony desirable?”
“I really don’t know,” said Margaret, a little uneasily. “Not as we usually see it, certainly. I suppose under the very best conditions marriage is the happiest life—but I know nothing about it.”
“I am quite sure it is the happiest life,” said Alan, “for both men and women, and it is the greatest possible mistake to put it off too long. Don’t be too fastidious as to conditions, Margaret, and too high-flown in your notions. Mutual liking and respect, and congeniality of tastes are a good enough foundation—the rest will follow. A cheerful disposition is an immense consideration, and that you have. You will always make the best of whatever comes. I don’t think I ever saw a woman better fitted for matrimony.”