Looking back I
seem always to have cared immensely. How could I help it? What I can't
understand is how every woman of your acquaintance doesn't care as I
do; you seem to me so lovable. I am so glad (though it seems an odd
thing to be glad about!) that you have no mother and no sister. I
don't feel such a marauder as I would have done if, by taking you,
I had robbed some other woman. And I am glad of your lonely life. I
shall be able to show you what a nice thing a home is. A quiet, safe
place we shall make it, where worldly cares may not enter. Boggley
says I can make an hotel room look home-like, and, indeed, it is
almost my only accomplishment, this talent for home-making. There is
one thing I want to say to you. You know what Robert Louis says about
married men?--that there is no wandering in pleasant bypaths for them,
that the road lies long and straight and dusty to the grave. It dulls
me to think of it. _Don't_ feel that. Don't let it be true. We mustn't
let our lives get dusty and straight and narrow. We shall love
whimsies and we shall laugh. So long as laughter isn't heartless and
doesn't hurt anyone it is good to laugh. Life will see to it that
there are tears--at least I'm told so. But suppose in years to come,
after we have grown used to each other (though it does amaze me that
people should talk about things losing their charm because one gets
_used_ to them. Does a child tire of its mother because it is used
to her? Is Spring any the less wonderful because we are used to
her coming? God grant we have many years to get used to each
other!)--suppose one fine morning you find that life has lost its
savour, you are tired of the accustomed round, you are tired of the
house, you are tired of the look of the furniture, you want to get
away for a time--in a word, to be free.
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