She laughed—she could not help laughing.
“No, indeed!” she answered. “I’ve never gone so far as that!”
“Gone so far!” echoed the Philosopher, ironically. “That’s not going far! That’s simply the plain commonplace line of conduct. To live together as Mr. and Mrs. Montagu would have entailed far more heroism than to swallow poison or stab one’s self with a dagger after a romantic soliloquy. Mrs. Montagu would have had to order the dinner and Mr. Montagu in his turn would have had to pay the bills. All the nonsense they talked out of window to each other would have been clean forgotten. He would have shown himself in slippers and she in a dressing gown. The silks and velvets they wore as two precocious young humbugs at old Capulet’s ball—or rather the silks and velvets the actors wear who impersonate them nowadays, would have had very little place in their wardrobe. They would have settled down to the plain routine of life,—perfect commonplace, without any sentiment.”
She stood, looking at him earnestly.
“I am sorry for you!” she said. “Your outlook is so very dreary! It’s like opening a window on a back-yard!”
He was not displeased.
“Back-yards are useful and necessary,” he observed, complacently. “So are dust-holes. Sentiment and silliness are not necessary.”
Suddenly she laughed merrily.
“I really think you ought to get married!” she said. “You are such an admirer of the commonplace that you ought to try matrimony!”