ting it in another way, one might say that the kind of story that
Ovid is so fond of describing, the affairs of Daphne and Io, for
instance, are fables of the same thing: an interlude of sentiment and
then a change into something new and domesticated, rooted, fixed, and
bounded in."

"It is certainly always a settling down," said I.

"I don't like this idea of settling down, George." He shuddered. "It
must be a dreadful thing to go about always with a house on your mind."

"You get used to it. And, besides, you don't go about so much."

He gave the bachelor wart hog a parting dig, and we walked slowly and
silently through the zebra-house towards the elephants. "Of course we
do not intend to settle down," he said presently, with a clumsy effort
to render his previous remarks impersonal.

"A marriage invalidates all promises," I explained. "The law
recognises this in the case of wills."

"That's a new view," he said, evidently uncomfortable about something.

"It follows from your doctrine of metamorphosis. A marries B. Then
the great change begins. A gradually alters into a new fixed form, C,
while B flattens and broadens out as D. It is a different couple, and
they cannot reasonably be held responsible for the vagaries of A and B."

"That ought to be better understood."

"It would perhaps be as well. Before marriage Edwin vows to devote his
life to Angelina, and Angelina vows she will devote her life to Edwin.
After marriage this leads to confusion if they continue to believe such
promises. Marriage certainly has that odd effect on the memory. You
remember Angelina's promises and forget your own, and _vice versa_."

"There is no apparition more distressing than the ghost of a dead
promise," said my uncle. "Especially when it is raised in the house of
your friends."

We passed through the elephant house in silence.

"I wonder what kind of man I shall be after the change, George. It's
all a toss-up," he continued, after an interval. "I have seen some men
improved by it. You, for instance. You were a mere useless, indecent
aspirant to genius before the thing came upon you. Now you are a
respectable journalist and gracefully anxious to give satisfaction to
your editor. But my own impression is that a man has to be a bit of an
ass before he can be improved by marriage. Most men get so mercenary,
they simply work and do nothing a rational creature should. They are
like the male ants that shed