“I'm forced to think of it.”
“But does he want to marry you at that? Take you as a present from the world at large?—against your will and desire?... I don't understand him.”
“He cares for me.”
“How?”
“He thinks this is a fearful mess for me. He wants to pull it straight.”
We sat for a time in silence, with imaginations that obstinately refused to take up the realities of this proposition.
“I don't want you to marry Shoesmith,” I said at last.
“Don't you like him?”
“Not as your husband.”
“He's a very clever and sturdy person—and very generous and devoted to me.”
“And me?”
“You can't expect that. He thinks you are wonderful—and, naturally, that you ought not to have started this.”
“I've a curious dislike to any one thinking that but