"It must be delightful to feel that the son of one's loins is at Sandhurst," Paul remarked enthusiastically.
"It is—it's charming. Oh, I'm a patriot!"
"Then what did you mean—the other night at Summersoft—by saying that children are a curse?"
"My dear fellow, on what basis are we talking?" St. George asked, dropping upon the sofa, at a short distance from his visitor. Sitting a little sideways he leaned back against the opposite arm with his hands raised and interlocked behind his head. "On the supposition that a certain perfection is possible and even desirable—isn't it so? Well, all I say is that one's children interfere with perfection. One's wife interferes. Marriage interferes."
"You think then the artist shouldn't marry?"
"He does so at his peril—he does so at his cost."
"Not even when his wife is in sympathy with his work?"
"She never is—she can't be! Women don't know what work is."
"Surely, they work themselves," Paul Overt objected.
"Yes, very badly. Oh, of course, often, they think they understand, they think they sympathise. Then it is that they are most dangerous. Their idea is that you shall do a great lot and get a great lot of money. Their great nobleness and virtue, their exemplary conscientiousness as British females, is in keeping you up to that. My wife makes all my bargains with my publishers for me, and she has done so for twenty years. She does it consummately well; that's why I'm really pretty well off. Are you not the father of their innocent babes, and will you withhold from them their natural sustenance? You asked me the other night if they were not an immense incentive. Of course they are—there's no doubt of that!"
