“No⁠—don’t say that⁠—your life need not be maimed,” said Dorothea, gently.

“Yes, it must,” said Will, angrily. “It is cruel of you to speak in that way⁠—as if there were any comfort. You may see beyond the misery of it, but I don’t. It is unkind⁠—it is throwing back my love for you as if it were a trifle, to speak in that way in the face of the fact. We can never be married.”

“Some time⁠—we might,” said Dorothea, in a trembling voice.

“When?” said Will, bitterly. “What is the use of counting on any success of mine? It is a mere toss up whether I shall ever do more than keep myself decently, unless I choose to sell myself as a mere pen and a mouthpiece. I can see that clearly enough. I could not offer myself to any woman, even if she had no luxuries to renounce.”