She hesitates, choosing her words. She knows so little of the man
in front of her. His clothes, she sees, are of the newest cut, but
his notions may not be.
At last her soft, weak, timid voice breaks the pause.
"Do you think it necessary to have very large families?"
"No, I don't," he answers instantly with the energy and alacrity of
one who is glad to express his opinion. "No, I don't, not at all."
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.
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