“Janny, you love me, and, by God, I love you. You’re the finest woman I’ve ever known, Janny. When are you going to marry me?” Martin had his arms about her, but both her hands were pressed against his breast. He seemed so big and powerful as he stood holding her; she knew his clean shaven chin was rough with his beard, firm and cold; he smelled fragrantly of cigars.
Ah, love! That was one thing,—she had no control over her heart,—but marriage was another. That was very different indeed.
“Martin dear,—I do love you,—I’m proud I love you. But I don’t want to get married!”
“Why not?”
Jeannette sighed wearily.
“I don’t suppose I can ever make you understand. I like to live my own life; I like to come and go as I please; I like to have the money I earn myself to spend the way I like. And besides that, I love my work, I love being at the office. I’ve been part of this business now for three years; I’ve helped to build it up, I know every detail; it belongs to me in a way. Does that sound unreasonable to you?”
“No, not unreasonable exactly. But I don’t think you see it right; you attach too much importance to it. You’ll be just as free and independent as my wife as you are now.”
Would she? She wondered. It was of that, that she had her gravest misgivings.
“And then there’s Mr. Corey. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving him; he depends on me so much.”
“Well, for God’s sake!” exclaimed Martin. “Do you mean to tell me you would let that stand in the way?”