He
enjoyed his go-as-you-please existence too much to want to have it
upset. He belonged, in fact, to the type which, when the moment
arrives, falls in love very suddenly, very violently, and for all time.
Nothing could have convinced him of this. He was like a child lighting
matches in a powder-magazine. When the idea of marriage crossed his
mind he thrust it from him with a kind of shuddering horror. He could
not picture to himself a woman who could compensate him for the loss of
his freedom and, still less, of his friends.
His friends were men's men; he could not see them fitting into a scheme
of life that involved the perpetual presence of a hostess. Hank
Jardine, for instance. To Kirk, the great point about Hank was that he
had been everywhere, seen everything, and was, when properly stimulated
with tobacco and drink, a fountain of reminiscence. But he could not
talk unless he had his coat off and his feet up on the back of a chair.
No hostess could be expected to relish that.
Hank was a bachelor's friend; he did not belong in a married household.
The abstract wife could not be reconciled to him, and Kirk, loving Hank
like a brother, firmly dismissed the abstract wife.
He came to look upon himself as a confirmed bachelor. He had thought
out the question of marriage in all its aspects, and decided against
it.
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