She nodded.
“Then we must take the alternative.”
She grew pale and looked at him with dread in her eyes—the universal human dread of finalities.
“We must try my plan,” he said. “We must try married life in the way that has succeeded—at least in some fashion—far oftener than it has failed.”
“Oh!” She felt relieved, but also she regretted that he had not spoken as she feared he would speak. She paused to gather courage, turned her face almost humbly up to him, and said: “I wish I could, George. But don’t urge me to do that. Let us go on as we are, until—until—Let us wait. Let us——”
He threw back his head haughtily. The patience of his vanity was worn through. “No,” he said. “That would be folly. It must be settled one way or the other, Emily.” He looked at her, his courage quailing before the boldness of his words. But he saw that she was white and trembling, and misunderstood it. He said to himself: “She must be firmly dealt with. She’s giving in—a woman always does in the last ditch.”
“No,” he repeated. “The door must be either open or shut. Either I am your husband, or I go out of your life.”
“You can’t mean that, George?” She was so agitated that she rose and came round the table to face him. “Why shouldn’t we wait—and hope? We still care each for the other, and—it hurts, oh, how it hurts—even to think of you as out of my life.”
He believed that she was yielding. He put his hand on her arm. “Dearest, there has been too much indecision already. You must choose between your theories and our happiness. Which will you take? You must choose here and now. Shall I go or stay?”
She went slowly back to her chair and sat down and again stared into the fire. “To-morrow,” she said at last. “I will decide to-morrow.”