“You are a good woman, dear, and I will ponder what you have said to me.”
“And you are not hurt?”
“Who is hurt by a good woman’s love?”
Strangely enough, that same evening, over his after-dinner port, John Strong expounded his principles with regard to the union of the sexes.
“There are many mistaken notions abroad about matrimony,” he said, snuffing the smoke from a favorite cigar. “People drag too much silly sentimentalism into the question. What is marriage but a delicate investment in flesh. I know life, and I give you my word, my boy, that there’s precious little difference between women when you come to study them in detail. One is tall, another short, some pretty, some plain; they all have tempers, they all love dress, they are all vain—much of a muchness. Love is generally a hysterical prejudice. Take my advice and marry by reason.”
Gabriel besought further paternal advice on the subject. His father expanded. He loved dogmatism and was in his element.
“Take a practical view of the question,” he said. “When I see a fine, handsome, good-tempered girl, born of good stock into an excellent social position, possessing grit and savoir faire, then I say to myself, ‘Wise William who secures that investment.’ That, sir, is what I call a reasonable marriage.”
Gabriel meditated a moment over his claret.
“You do not believe in the worth of the deeper sentiments?” he said.
“Poetry, sir, is very well between calf covers and gold lettering, but for God’s sake keep poetical notions out of plain, honest existence. They are ruinous.”