"Of course it isn't as if you and I could ever quarrel, George," she said. "There, I'm burning your sister's slipper. I say we can't quarrel, because we're ever so far beyond that. Therefore we can talk quite plainly about anything on earth, or under it, or above it. So now tell me why I mustn't marry Derry." I thought of the man upstairs, of the spirit-kettle on his table, of why he must be alone when he woke in the morning. "There are physical reasons, if there weren't any others." "Of course. He'll get younger. He'll be sixteen. Well, I can be his mother then. But I shall have _been_ his wife." "For how long?" She lifted her beautiful shoulders. "What does that matter? I said his wife. Does any bride on her wedding-day ask herself how long it's for? There have been widows who've never even taken breakfast with their husbands." "But they married men like other men." "Pooh! Tell that to any woman in love! They're all Derrys as long as it lasts, and he's Derry as long as it lasts." "But his memory?" "We don't know that anything's the matter with it. Really you're very hard to please, George. First you complain that he's got too much memory and he's writing what you call a wicked book with it. Now you seem afraid he hasn't enough to get married with. If he's happier without a memory at all, what's the odds?" "But yourself?" "Oh, I can look after myself--now! And anyway you needn't worry about _my_ memory!" Yet that was what I was worrying about. How gorgeously she had enriched her memories that very day I had seen for myself. Openly she exulted in her treasures. But what was to be the end of it all? By marriage did she mean one last wild lovely memory more and after that--nothing? If so, was ever degree so inconceivably prohibited? A dark-haired child in the wrong seat in a village church--a few odd hours in the country that it might have been a mercy to spare her--that day in my own house and grounds--to-morrow with whatever it might bring--perhaps another day or two unless he overtook another milestone before then ... and then the relative and inevitable sequence: his bride, his elder sister, his mother, aunt, elderly adviser and friend, and so on to the close. This was the prospect she was deliberately embracing. Here she espied her joy.... And should there be a child?... She had sat down again. That appearance of a quarrel between two people who could never quarrel was at an end. I lifted the logs, arranged her shawl again, and then also sat down. Mrs Moxon brought in a tray, with hot milk and biscuits for her and whisky for myself. She set a small table between us. Julia's slender fingers played as it were a tune as she moved the too-hot glass from one position to another. Mrs Moxon gave a final glance round, wished us good night, and went out again. I mixed myself a peg, and then turned to Julia. "I think you were going to tell me, when I interrupted you, what happened before I knew Derry," I said.