"Meat lozenges, darling, are concentrated nastiness. I felt like an unhealthy bullock the whole of the rest of the day when, to please you, I sucked one while we were mountain climbing. I propose living on interesting and unique fruits and roots--all the things which correspond to locusts and wild honey. But, Helen, I am afraid there will be quite a long time during which I shall not be able either to send or to receive letters. We shall have to console ourselves with the trite old saying: 'No news is good news.' Of course, so far as I am concerned, it would be useless to hear of any cause for anxiety or worry when I could not possibly get back, or deal with it." "You shall not hear of any worries, or have any anxieties, darling. If difficulties arise, I will deal with them. You must keep a perfectly free mind, all the time. For my part, I will try not to give way to panics about you, if you will promise to cable occasionally, and to write as often as you can." "_You_ won't go and get ill, will you, Helen?" She smiled, laying her cheek on the top of his head, as she bent over him. "I never get ill, darling. Like you, I am sound in wind and limb. We are a most healthy couple." "We shall both be thirty, Helen, before we meet again. You will attain to that advanced age a month before I shall. On your birthday I shall drink your health in some weird concoction of juices; and I shall say to all the lions and tigers, hippopotamuses, cockatrices and asps, sitting round my camp fire: 'You will hardly believe it, my heathen hearers, out in this well-ordered jungle, where the female is kept in her proper place--but my wife has had the cheek to march up to-day into the next decade, leaving me behind in the youthful twenties!'--Oh, Helen, I wish we had a little kiddie playing around! I am tired of being the youngest of the family." She clasped both hands about his throat. He might have heard the beating of her heart--had he been listening. "Ronald, that is a joy which may yet be ours--some day. But my writer of romances, who is such a stickler for grammatical accuracy, is surely the _younger_ of a family of _two_!" "Oh, grammar be--relegated to the library!" cried Ronnie, laughing. "And you really presume too much on that one short month, Helen. You often treat me as if I were an infant." The smile in her eyes held the mother look, in its yearning tenderness. "Ronnie dear, you _are_ so very much younger than I, in many ways; and you always will be. Unlike the 'Infant of Days,' if you live to be a hundred years old, you will still die young; a child in heart, full of youth's joyous joy in living. You must not mind if your wife occasionally treats you as though you were a dear big baby, requiring maternal care and petting. You are such a veritable boy sometimes, and it soothes the yearning for a little son of yours to cuddle in her arms, when she plays that her big boy is something of a baby."