“If you had a son—would you like him to marry her?”
“No, because my son might, I am afraid, be something like you. Too spoilt to be natural. Both you and he would look for things that are superficial and unnecessary—a certain easy manner—a ready jargon. You are perfectly right to look for it, for you have come to expect it. As I say, you would criticize this girl—and criticism would stunt her growth. She would be unnatural, and in course of time she would be unhappy. But the young man she should marry will admire her: bring out the best in her: encourage her; and in course of time what she must learn will be taught her by her sons and daughters. The daughters will criticize her and the sons will force her to be different. By that time she will be ready to change—and in the background there will always be her husband to tell her, when they find themselves alone, that he liked her best as she was, and things as they used to be. And if she had not been so happy young she would never have such fine boys and girls, and it is her boys and girls—girls particularly—who are going to make England. Now let us see the little niece—I am rather blind—I cannot see her face at a distance.”
Marcus called “Shan’t” and Mrs. Sloane smiled. This Marcus did not see. He was rearranging the skirts of Shan’t: pulling up her socks; arranging her hair, so that some of it at least showed under her hat; then he patted her generally, as any mother might have done.
“Well?” said the elderly woman.
“Oh!” said Shan’t, beaming.
Marcus was delighted to see how quickly they made friends. Every one took to Shan’t.
He turned and found the dark-eyed girl coming towards him—shyly advancing. She was certainly too self-conscious. “My mother says we should be so pleased if you would come shrimping with us this afternoon and come to supper afterwards.” She had made the great advance; Marcus would have retreated, but he had been caught unprepared; he hesitated, seeking an excuse. The first that presented itself to him was that his legs were too pale, as Shan’t’s had been: the next that he didn’t shrimp.
“But you must have supper somewhere?” she suggested.
Marcus could not say that as a rule he did not have it anywhere, so he said—“Oh, thank you—”
“Then you will?”