Celia became suddenly interested in the shading of a vine leaf, and bent her face so low over her work, that a flood of crimson rushed into her cheeks, and she felt disinclined to look up again.
She gave a little, nervous cough presently, and, as Gerard was pacing the room in silence, felt herself constrained to say something.
‘I dare say the young lady to whom you are engaged will not mind how long she has to wait,’ Celia suggested; ‘or, if she is very brave, she will not shrink from sharing your early struggles.’
‘There is no such young lady in question,’ answered Gerard. ‘I am not engaged.’
‘I beg your pardon. Ah, I forgot you had said you didn’t go to parties.’
‘Do you think a man should choose a wife at a dance?’
‘I don’t know. Such things do happen at dances, don’t they?’
‘Possibly. For my own part, I would rather see my future wife at home, by her father’s fireside.’
‘Darning stockings,’ suggested Celia. ‘I believe that is the real test of feminine virtue. A woman may be allowed to play and sing; she may even speak a couple of modern languages; but her chief merit is supposed to lie in her ability to darn stockings and make a pudding. Now, Mr. Gerard, is not that the old-established idea of perfection in womankind?’
‘I believe that the darning and pudding-making are vaguely supposed to include all the domestic virtues. It may seem sordid in a lover to consider such details, but the happiness of a husband depends somewhat upon his wife’s housekeeping. Could any home be Eden in which the cook gave warning once a month, and the policeman ate up all the cold meat?’