"She has not improved, Jim," I said.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
"I used to think.... You know, George, I've got to an age when I ought to marry."
"So has she," I observed, tucking my towels round me and beginning to brush my hair. "I'm coming round to Bertrand's view that an unmarried woman of five-and-twenty is a public danger, particularly when husband-hunting is conducted with its present healthy absence of restraint. The spinster is not so much an object of pity as an offence against nature, and Nature punishes any liberty you take with her. In the old days we had our convents where superfluous women could retire with dignity. That at least whited the outside of the sepulchre. The present London Season is a pathological study. You'll see for yourself."
He rose slowly from the bed and began to get into his clothes.
"I don't think I shall be much in town if I'm going to run into the Daintons everywhere," he answered.
Only three days later I was able to tell him that this last danger had been removed. Bertrand and I had arranged to hear "Parsifal" at Covent Garden, and, as his box was large, he offered a seat to Violet—the one woman of his family whom he treated with paternal kindness. There was still room for another, and I invited Loring to join us. Nothing is more repugnant to my taste than to interfere with the destinies of others, but when Amy petitioned me in person I could not decently refuse.
"He can't tell one note from another," I expostulated, "and the thing starts at five. He'll be reduced to tears."
"If he doesn't want to come, he needn't accept," she answered. "All I ask you to do is to give him the invitation."
"Well, will you invite him—from me?"