'You don't realise it, but you're not well,' she said.
He gave an impatient gesture.
'How like a woman! As soon as I talk sense you say I'm not well. A broken leg doesn't affect the brain, remember.'
'No, Aylmer; I don't mean that. But you've been thinking this over till you've lost your bearings, your sense of proportion….'
'Rot! I've just got it! That's what you mean. It comes to this, my dear girl'—he spoke gently. 'Of course, if you don't care for me, my suggestion would be perfectly mad. Perhaps you don't. Probably you regard our romance as a pretty little story to look back on.'
'No, I don't, unless—'
'I won't ask you straight out,' he said. 'I don't suppose you know yourself. But, if you care for me, as I do for you'—he spoke steadily—'you'll do as I ask.'
'I might love you quite as much, and yet not do it.'
'I know it's a big thing. It's a sacrifice, in a way. But don't you see, Edith, that if you still like me, your present life is a long, slow sacrifice to convention, or (as you say) to a morbid sense of responsibility?'
She looked away with a startled expression.