“All girls are women,” said Mrs. O’Gorman. “That’s the difference between girls and boys. Boys go on being boys long after they’re men; girls can be women from birth. Let’s be practical now. What are the alternatives, do you say—Rose to visit about, or a duenna to be imported?” “There seems to be no other,” I said. Mrs. O’Gorman laughed her triumphant knowing Irish laugh. “There is at least one more,” she said. “Supposing Rose should become engaged—then no one would have anything to say. Many girls are married and mothers when they’re no older than she is now.” She paused. “You’re frowning, Doctor,” said Mrs. O’Gorman. “You don’t like it.” “It’s not what I was wanting,” I said. “I’ve made you jealous,” she went on maliciously. “How can I be jealous when I’m not in love with her?” I asked. “Listen to the man!” she mocked. “As if jealousy had any logic, any rules or reason! Every one’s jealous—not only lovers. It’s one of the impulses of life; it’s a part of all kinds of honourable respectable emotions that every one praises, such as ambition. Possessiveness always leads to it—and that is why you’d hate Rose’s lover so, because he’d be taking her away from you: first her thoughts, and then herself. So should I be jealous if you spent more time talking with that nincompoop, Mrs. Galloway, than with me. Jealousy runs through life. It’s elemental. Listen to your spaniel growling when you’re patting my Peek. It’s no use being ashamed of jealousy, and it’s no use believing people when they say they are superior to the feeling.” “All right,” I said. “Let us leave it at that: if Rose became engaged I should be jealous. Horribly jealous. I admit it. Disappointed, frustrated, too. I’ve hardly seen her yet, and some fellow carries her off just when she’s of age to be a companion. It’s too absurd.” “But that’s life,” said Mrs. O’Gorman. “No sense in it whatever. Just a stupid hurrying along to the tomb. No time to do anything, except to say, at intervals, ‘Good Heavens! what have I been doing with my time!’” “No, no!” I said. “It’s better than that.” “Very little,” she replied. “But anyway, let you and me be practical at the moment. There are three possible courses: One—that Rose may become engaged and then Mrs. Stratton and all her friends would cease to think of you as an immoral man. Two—that you should invite some elderly spinster or widow to live in your house as a perpetual chaperon. And three—” she paused again. “Well, what is three?” “Three,” she resumed: “that you should go on as you are and tell them all to go to the devil. All my votes are for number three.” “Mine too,” I said. “But of course the first may happen—don’t forget that,” she warned me. “I’ll wait till it does,” I said. “Thank you for your sympathy and counsel.” “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,’” she called after me, with a rather sinister chuckle.