dear," turned again to the keyboard and began to play fragments from her husband's operas. And now and again she threw a few words at Kit, almost as though she was singing them. "One's view point changes. Old wine and new wine,—you know. Hasn't it ever occurred to you, Christopher, how marriage limits a woman?" He sat, attentive and silent. "Molly is one of those women who have no intention of being limited. There are women who are keen on their jobs—their careers,—just as you are."
She glanced over a shoulder at his grave face.
"I suppose so," he said.
"And suppose—for a moment—dear lad—that some tumultuous woman came and married you and shut you up in a house—and you had to look after the children—and the servants,—and the work of your life had ceased, and you were expected to be glad about it. How does that sound to you?"
"Oh,—I quite agree," he said, "that if a woman has a career."
"Well,—Molly Pentreath has. And I imagine she believes with many of us that bringing children into the world—and all that—is for the specialists—the women who want children. All women don't—you know."
Christopher examined his finger-nails.
"Don't think me rude, Cherry, but I wish you would tell me"
She swung round and faced him.
"Now—I know what you are going to ask me.—I had to,—and when we had to—we wanted to. Marriage seems to happen sometimes without your being able to help it. Besides."
She sat poised with that thrush-like tilt of the head.
"Some men understand things,—and when they do. Well, a woman's fine resolutions may blow inside out like a sunshade. But—the Mr. Gullivers. How would you like to be tied to a Mrs. Gulliver?"
A week or two later Christopher received a note from Cherry Roland.
"Come and dine with us on Saturday. No formalities. We shall expect you at 7.30."
