"Never," he vowed. "What a lucky thing it was for me your getting mixed up in that wire netting. Girls are very helpless."
"But they manage somehow to get out of their difficulties," I laughed, and we sat a little closer. "Marguerite," he said suddenly, "would you like a—child?"
I felt the colour rise to my cheeks as I shook my head.
He stooped and kissed me.
"I'm so glad," he whispered. "I wouldn't either. We don't want anyone but each other, do we?"
"Perhaps—some day," I faltered.
"Well, perhaps some day," he assented a little reluctantly. "People with children seem so beastly selfish to everybody but the children. They've no thought for anybody else, no interest. You say to 'em, 'My house was burnt down last night.' They look a little vague and reply, 'How unfortunate. Johnny has contracted measles.' Really anxious to impress them, you go on to tell them that your mother has just died from heart failure, and they say, 'How distressing. Mary has passed her matric.' You want to curse Mary, but you daren't. They represent all that is holy, all that is extraordinary (in their own eyes), all that is happiness; they are parents. You stand outside the door of the holy of holies. You know not the meaning of the words life, joy, fatherhood, motherhood. The sun and the moon only shine for them. The stars twinkle, and the flowers bloom, only for the children."
He paused and sighed deeply. I laughed, and patted his hand.
"How do you know all this?"
"I have a married sister, remember. When she went abroad with Gladys and Maxwell I was unfeignedly relieved. They were getting on my nerves, father included."