the things that were within her grasp. To ask her to forego them now
because later on she would not care for them! it was like telling a
schoolboy to avoid the tuck-shop because, when a man, the thought of
stick-jaw would be nauseous to him. If her capacity for enjoyment was to
be short-lived, all the more reason for grasping joy quickly.

Alice Blatchley, when her lover was not by, gave herself many a headache
trying to think the thing out logically. Was it not foolish of her to
rush into this marriage with dear Nat? At forty she would wish she
had married somebody else. But most women at forty--she judged from
conversation round about her--wished they had married somebody else. If
every girl at twenty listened to herself at forty there would be no
more marriage. At forty she would be a different person altogether. That
other elderly person did not interest her. To ask a young girl to spoil
her life purely in the interests of this middle-aged party--it did not
seem right. Besides, whom else was she to marry? Camelford would not
have her; he did not want her then; he was not going to want her at
forty. For practical purposes Camelford was out of the question. She
might marry somebody else altogether--and fare worse. She might remain
a spinster: she hated the mere name of spinster. The inky-fingered woman
journalist that, if all went well, she might become: it was not her
idea. Was she acting selfishly? Ought she, in his own interests, to
refuse to marry dear Nat? Nellie--the little cat--who would suit him at
forty, would not have him. If he was going to marry anyone but Nellie he
might as well marry her, Alice. A bachelor clergyman! it sounded almost
improper. Nor was dear Nat the type. If she threw him over it would be
into the arms of some designing minx. What was she to do?

Camelford at forty, under the influence of favourable criticism, would
have persuaded himself he was a heaven-sent prophet, his whole life
to be beautifully spent in the saving of mankind. At twenty he felt he
wanted to live. Weird-looking Jessica, with her magnificent eyes veiling
mysteries, was of more importance to him than the rest of the species
combined. Knowledge of the future in his ease only spurred desire. The
muddy complexion would grow pink and white, the thin limbs round and
shapely; the now scornful eyes would one day light with love at his
coming. It was what he had once hoped: it was what he now knew. At forty
the artist is stron