pause.

"The best reason," she agreed. "But in your case insufficient, and I'll
tell you why--you aren't old enough yet to know what you do want."

"Twenty-three," Michael reminded her.

"Twenty-fiddlesticks!" she snapped. "And isn't there a good deal of
opposition?"

"A good deal."

"And no doubt you feel a fine romantical heroical young fellow?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I'm not going to argue against your marrying her," said Mrs.
Carthew. "Because I know quite well that the more I proved you to be
wrong, the more you'd be determined to prove _I_ was. But I can give you
advice about marriage, because I've been married and you haven't. Is she
dark? If she's dark, be very cold for a year, and if she doesn't leave
you in that time, she'll adore you for the rest of her life."

"But she's fair," said Michael. "Very fair indeed."

"Then beat her. Not actually, of course; but beat her figuratively for a
year. If you don't, she'll either be a shrew or a whiner. Both
impossible to live with."

"Which did Captain Carthew do to you?" asked Michael, twinkling.

"Neither; I ruled him with a rod of iron."

"But do you think I'm wise to wait like this before marrying her?"
Michael asked.

"There's no wisdom in waiting to do an unwise thing."

"You're so sure it is unwise?"

"All marriages are unwise," said Mrs. Carthew sharply. "That's why
everybody gets married. For most people it is the only imprudence they
have an opportunity of committing. After that, they're permanently cured
of rashness, and settle down. There are exceptions, of course: they take
to drink. I must say I'm greatly pleased with these long-spurred
columbines."

Michael thought she had finished the discussion of his marriage, but
suddenly she said:

"I thought I told you to come and see me when you went down from
Oxford."

"I ought to have come," Michael agreed rather humbly. He always felt
inclined to propitiate the old lady.

"Here we have the lamentable result. Marriage at twenty-three."

"Alan married at twenty-three," he pointed out.

"Two fools don't make a wise-man," said Mrs. Carthew.

"He's very happy."

"He would be satisfied with much less than you, and he has married a
delightful girl."

"I'm going to marry a delightful girl."

The old lady made no reply. Nor did she comment again upon his prospect
of happiness.

In mid-May, after a visit of nearly a month, Michael left Cobble Place
and went to stay at Plashers Mea