She did not like it that Jasper should shoot birds

　　These two she would have liked to keep for ever just as they were,demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never to see them grow up intolong-legged monsters. Nothing made up up for the loss. When she readjust now to James, "and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrumsand trumpets," and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should theygrow up and lose all that? He was the most gifted, the most sensitive ofher children. But all, she thought, were full of promise. Prue, a perfectangel with the others, and sometimes now, at night especially, she tookone's breath away with her beauty. Andrew—even her husband admittedthat his gift for mathematics was extraordinary. And Nancy and Roger,they were both wild creatures now, scampering about over thecountry all day long. As for Rose, her mouth was too big, but she had awonderful gift with her hands. If they had charades, Rose made thedresses; made everything; liked best arranging tables, flowers, anything.
　　She did not like it that Jasper should shoot birds; but it was only a stage;they all went through stages. Why, she asked, pressing her chin onJames's head, should they grow up so fast? Why should they go toschool? She would have liked always to have had a baby. She was happiestcarrying one in her arms. Then people might say she was tyrannical,domineering, masterful, if they chose; she did not mind. And, touchinghis hair with her lips, she thought, he will never be so happy again, butstopped herself, remembering how it angered her husband that sheshould say that. Still, it was true. They were happier now than theywould ever be again. A tenpenny tea set made Cam happy for days. Sheheard them stamping and crowing on the floor above her head the momentthey awoke. They came bustling along the passage. Then the doorsprang open and in they came, fresh as roses, staring, wide awake, as ifthis coming into the dining-room after breakfast, which they did everyday of their lives, was a positive event to them, and so on, with one thingafter another, all day long, until she went up to say good-night to them,and found them netted in their cots like birds among cherries and raspberries,still making up stories about some little bit of rubbish—something they had heard, something they had picked up in thegarden. They all had their little treasures… And so she went down andsaid to her husband, Why must they grow up and lose it all? Never willthey be so happy again. And he was angry. Why take such a gloomyview of life? he said. It is not sensible. For it was odd; and she believed it to be true; that with all his gloom and desperation he was happier, morehopeful on the whole, than she was. Less exposed to human worries—perhaps that was it. He had always his work to fall back on. Notthat she herself was "pessimistic," as he accused her of being. Only shethought life—and a little strip of time presented itself to her eyes—herfifty years. There it was before her—life. Life, she thought—but she didnot finish her thought. She took a look at life, for she had a clear sense ofit there, something real, something private, which she shared neitherwith her children nor with her husband. A sort of transaction went onbetween them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another,and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her; andsometimes they parleyed (when she sat alone); there were, she remembered,great reconciliation scenes; but for the most part, oddlyenough, she must admit that she felt this thing that she called life terrible,hostile, and quick to pounce on you if you gave it a chance. Therewere eternal problems: suffering; death; the poor. There was always awoman dying of cancer even here. And yet she had said to all these children,You shall go through it all. To eight people she had said relentlesslythat (and the bill for the greenhouse would be fifty pounds). Forthat reason, knowing what was before them—love and ambition and beingwretched alone in dreary places—she had often the feeling, Whymust they grow up and lose it all? And then she said to herself, brandishingher sword at life, Nonsense. They will be perfectly happy. Andhere she was, she reflected, feeling life rather sinister again, makingMinta marry Paul Rayley; because whatever she might feel about herown transaction, she had had experiences which need not happen toevery one (she did not name them to herself); she was driven on, tooquickly she knew, almost as if it were an escape for her too, to say thatpeople must marry; people must have children.
　　Was she wrong in this, she asked herself, reviewing her conduct forthe past week or two, and wondering if she had indeed put any pressureupon Minta, who was only twenty-four, to make up her mind. She wasuneasy. Had she not laughed about it? Was she not forgetting again howstrongly she influenced people? Marriage needed—oh, all sorts of qualities(the bill for the greenhouse would be fifty pounds); one—she neednot name it—that was essential; the thing she had with her husband.
　　Had they that?