“But, dear—dear!” she protested. “It isn't for the money; it is the work I want to do—it is my work! You are so happy now that you can do your work—at last! This is mine!”
When he spoke again his voice was low and stern.
“Do you mean that you love—your work—better than you love me?”
“No! It isn't that! That's not fair!” cried the girl. “Do you love your work better than you love me? Of course not! You love both. So do I. Can't you see? Why should I have to give up anything?”
“You do not have to,” he said patiently. “I cannot compel you to marry me. But now, when at last—after these awful years—I can really offer you a home—you refuse!”
“I have not refused,” she said slowly.
His voice lightened again.
“Ah, dearest! And you will not! You will marry me?”
“I will marry you, Ross!”
“And when? When, dearest?”