The girl's suspended breath is drawn again. Unlike himself in his queries she presses her point home.
"Don't you think those marriages are the happiest where there are no children?"
"Yes," he says decidedly, getting up and thrusting his hands into his coat pockets. "Yes, I do—much the happiest."
There is silence. It is too dark for either to see the other's expression. He stands irresolutely for a minute or two, and then says with a disagreeable laugh:
"I should hate my own children! Fancy coming home and finding a lot of children crying and screaming in the place."
To this the girl says nothing, and Stephen, after a minute's reflection, softens his words.
"Besides, your wife's love, when she has children, is all given to them."
"Yes," murmurs her well-bred voice. "Oh, yes, one is happier without them."
Neither speak. They are agreed so far; there is a deep relief and pleasure in the breast of each.
"Well," he says at last, rousing himself, "I must go. I shall be late for dinner."