“What, intimately?”
Farquhar turned his head, met Lucian’s eyes, and smiled. “Oh no; quite slightly,” he said, lying with candour and glee.
“Oh, indeed,” said Lucian. “Now that’s queer; I thought I’d met you there. By the way, do you believe in eternal constancy?”
“In what?”
“In eternal constancy; did you never hear of it before?”
“Well, yes, pulex irritans, I’ve seen a man go mourning all his life long; so I do believe in it.”
“No, no, sonny; I’m not discussing its existence, but its merits. Do you hold that a man should be eternally faithful to the memory of a dead woman?”
“Not if he doesn’t want to.”
“My point is that he oughtn’t to want to. See here; your body changes every seven years, and I’ll be hanged if your mind doesn’t change, too. Now, your married couple change together and so keep abreast. But if the woman dies, she comes to a stop. In seven years the survivor will have grown right away from her. The constant husband prides himself on his loyalty, and is ashamed to admit even in camera that a resurrected wife wouldn’t fit into his present life; but in nine cases out of ten the wound’s healed and cicatrised, and only a sentimental scruple bars him from saying so. And there, as I take it, he’s wrong.”
“What would you have him do?”