Sinister Street

"Yes, if I can--or what is a philosopher?"

"A philosopher philosophizes."

"Does he really? Is that a difficult thing to do, to philosopherize?"

"Yes; it's almost harder to do than to p.r.o.nounce."

Soon they were tearing down the hill, frightening the larks to right and left of their progress.

The weather grew warmer every day, and at last Mrs. Carthew came out in a wheel-chair to see the long-spurred columbines, claret and gold, watchet, rose and white.

"Really quite a display," she said to Michael. "And so you're to get married?"

He nodded.

"What for?" the old lady demanded, looking at him over her spectacles.

"Well, princ.i.p.ally because I want to," Michael answered, after a short pause.

"The best reason," she agreed. "But in your case insufficient, and I'll tell you why--you aren't old enough yet to know what you do want."

"Twenty-three," Michael reminded her.

"Twenty-fiddlesticks!" she snapped. "And isn't there a good deal of opposition?"

"A good deal."

"And no doubt you feel a fine romantical heroical young fellow?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I'm not going to argue against your marrying her," said Mrs.

Carthew. "Because I know quite well that the more I proved you to be wrong, the more you'd be determined to prove _I_ was. But I can give you advice about marriage, because I've been married and you haven't. Is she dark? If she's dark, be very cold for a year, and if she doesn't leave you in that time, she'll adore you for the rest of her life."

"But she's fair," said Michael. "Very fair indeed."

"Then beat her. Not actually, of course; but beat her figuratively for a year. If you don't, she'll either be a shrew or a whiner. Both impossible to live with."

"Which did Captain Carthew do to you?" asked Michael, twinkling.

"Neither; I ruled him with a rod of iron."

"But do you think I'm wise to wait like this before marrying

Michael asked.

"There's no wisdom in waiting to do an unwise thing."

"You're so sure it is unwise?"

"All marriages are unwise," said Mrs. Carthew sharply. "That's why everybody gets married. For most people it is the only imprudence they have an opportunity of committing. After that, they're permanently cured of rashness, and settle down. There are exceptions, of course: they take to drink. I must say I'm greatly pleased with these long-spurred columbines."

Michael thought she had finished the discussion of his marriage, but suddenly she said:

"I thought I told you to come and see me when you went down from Oxford."

"I ought to have come," Michael agreed rather humbly. He always felt inclined to propitiate the old lady.

"Here we have the lamentable result. Marriage at twenty-three."

"Alan married at twenty-three," he pointed out.

"Two fools don't make a wise-man," said Mrs. Carthew.

"He's very happy."

"He would be satisfied with much less than you, and he has married a delightful girl."

"I'm going to marry a delightful girl."

The old lady made no reply. Nor did she comment again upon his prospect of happiness.

In mid-May, after a visit of nearly a month, Michael left Cobble Place and went to stay at Plashers Mead. Guy Hazlewood was the only friend he still had who could not possibly have come into contact with Lily or her former surroundings. Moreover, Guy was deep in love himself, and he had been very sympathetic when he wrote to Michael about his engagement.

"Do I intrude upon your May idyll?" Michael asked.

"My dear chap, don't be so absurd. But why aren't you married? You're as bad as me."

"Why aren't _you_ married?"

"Oh, I don't know," Guy sighed. "Everybody seems to be conspiring to put it off."

They were sitting in Guy's green library. The windows wide open let in across the sound of the burbling stream the warm air of the lucid May night, where bats and owls and evejars flew across the face of the decrescent moon.

"It's this dreamy country in which you live," said Michael.

"What about you? You've let people put off your marriage."

"Only for another two months," Michael explained.

"You see I'm down to one hundred and fifty pounds a year now," Guy muttered. "I can't marry on that, and I can't leave this place, and her people can't afford to make her an allowance. They think I ought to go away and work at journalism. However, I'm not going to worry you with my troubles."

Guy was a good deal with Pauline every day: Michael wrote long letters to Lily and read poetry.

"Browning?" asked Guy one afternoon, looking over Michael's shoulder.

"Yes; The Statue and The Bust."

"Oh, don't remind me of that poem. It haunts me," Guy declared.