est
indignation.

'Well, yes; but there's something to be said for him. It's a natural
revolt against domestic bondage. Of course, as things are, someone else
has to bear the bother and expense; but that's only our state of
barbarism. A widower with two young children and no income--imagine the
position. Of course, he ought to be able to get rid of them in some
legitimate way--state institution--anything you like that answers to
reason.'

'I don't know whether it would work.'

'Some day it will. People talk such sentimental rubbish about children.
I would have the parents know nothing about them till they're ten or
twelve years old. They're a burden, a hindrance, a perpetual source of
worry and misery. Most wives are sacrificed to the next generation--an
outrageous absurdity. People snivel over the deaths of babies; I see
nothing to grieve about. If a child dies, why, the probabilities are it
_ought_ to die; if it lives, it lives, and you get survival of the
fittest. We don't want to choke the world with people, most of them
rickety and wheezing; let us be healthy, and have breathing space.'

'I believe in _that_,' said Carnaby.

'You're going away, then. Where to?'

'That's the point,' replied Hugh, moving uneasily. 'You see, with
Sibyl--. I have suggested Davos. Some people she knows are there--girls
who go in for tobogganing, and have a good time. But Sibyl's afraid of
the cold. I can't convince her that it's nothing to what we endure here
in the beastliness of a London winter. She hates the thought of ice and
snow and mountains. A great pity; it would do her no end of good. I
suppose we must go to the Riviera.'

He shrugged his shoulders, and for a moment there was silence.

'By-the-bye,' he resumed, 'I have a letter from Miles, and you'd like
to see it.'

From a pile of letters on the table he selected one written on two
sheets of thin paper, and handed it to Rolfe. The writing was bold, the
style vigorous, the matter fresh and interesting. Major Carnaby had no
graces of expression; but all the more engrossing was his brief
narrative of mountain warfare, declaring its truthfulness in every
stroke of the pen.

'Fine fellow!' exclaimed Rolfe, when he had read to the end. 'Splendid
fellow!'

'Isn't he! And he's seeing life.'

'That's where you ought to be, my boy,' remarked Rolfe, between puffs
of tobacco.

'I dare say. No use thinking about it. Too late.'

'If I had a son,' pursued Harvey, smiling