“Of course, Dombeen,” she said, “I don’t want to leave you before I must, but I want to marry some day; I think every girl who is healthy ought to, and have children.” She stopped and looked into an unfathomable distance. “Boys,” she said. “I don’t want girls. I should love to have a boy in the Navy, and see him in his bright buttons, with sun-burned hair, and freckles. But it would have to be the right man, of course.” “What kind of a man would that be?” I asked, a little wistfully, I fear. “Don’t be unhappy,” Rose said, with one of her gay smiles and a touch on my arm. “It won’t be yet, anyway. We’ll have lots more good times together before then.” “You never can tell,” I said. “He may be just round the corner at this moment. In any case I should like to know what kind of man you are thinking of. I might”—here I made an effort to laugh lightly—“I might be able to find him for you.” “It’s difficult,” she said. “How old?” I asked. “Do you want him to be your own age?” “Pretty nearly,” she said. “I want to have fun as well. Older men are rather nice, I know, but they’re rather grave too. I should hate to be tied to a stodge. Some one who could go long walks, and climb a tree if necessary, and ride, and be silly at parties. But not really silly underneath, of course; and yet,” she added, “older men are very attractive, aren’t they?” “I hope so,” I said: “now and then.” “Oh, you vain thing!” she replied. “No,” she went on, “he should be older than I am, anyway.” “A fellow like young Fortescue?” I hazarded. “Oh no. He thinks too much about his clothes.” “But he’s very good-looking.” “Yes, in a way. And I should want him to be handsome. I want my boys to be handsome, you see. But not like Harry Fortescue: he’s too pretty.” “Very well then. Young Somers-Flint?” “No, he’s too noisy. He has that terrible laugh. I should want him to be amusing, of course, and see all the funny things in life, but more quietly. Besides, I can’t stand men with thin noses. His nose is absurd.” “If you want big noses,” I said, “what about Harold Swain?” “Oh, but that’s just the other extreme,” she said. “The man’s a—what do you call those birds at the Zoo, all colours with little eyes set like jewels and enormous beaks? I know—toucans. The man’s a toucan.” “But he’s over six feet and a first-class cricketer,” I said. “Yes, I like that,” she said. “I should like him to be good at games. But he mustn’t be grotesque.” “Surely you can mention some one who comes at any rate nearer your ideal? What about”—I did my best to make my voice sound natural—“what about Ronnie?” I did not look at her, so I cannot say whether Rose blushed or not. “Ronnie,” she said meditatively. “Yes, I like Ronnie. Ronnie is a dear. But—” “Yes?” “Ronnie is to play with,” she said. “He’s not for a husband. I should want my husband to be stronger than that.”