And he sighed.
She turned towards him, leaned one hand on the stone and looked at him almost anxiously.
“What is the matter, Dion?”
“Why? There is nothing the matter.”
“Would you rather we never had that in our lives?”
“A child?”
“Yes, a child.”
“I thought I longed for that,” he answered.
“Do you meant that you have changed and don’t long any more?”
“I suppose it’s like this. When a man’s very happy, perfectly happy, he doesn’t—perhaps he can’t—want any change to come. If you’re perfectly happy instinctively you almost fear any change. Till to-day, till this very minute perhaps, I thought I wanted to have a child—some day. Perhaps I still do really, or perhaps I shall. But—you must forgive me, I can’t help it!—this evening, sitting here, I don’t want anything to come between us. It seems to me that even a child of ours would take some of you away from me. Don’t you see that?”