Theresa came the next afternoon and took her for a drive. “Has Edgar been proposing to you?” she asked.
“I think he’s feeling more or less sentimental,” Emily replied, not liking the intimate question.
“Now, don’t think I’m meddling. Edgar told me, and has been talking about you all morning. He wished me to help him.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“Marry him, Emily. He’d make a model husband. He’s not very mean about money, and he’s fond of home and children. I’d like it on my own account, of course. It would be just the thing in every way.”
“But then there’s my work, my independence, my freedom.”
“Do be sensible. You can work as hard as ever you like, even if you are married. And you’d be freer than now and would have a lots better time, no matter what your idea of a good time is.”
“But I don’t love him. I’m not sure that I even like him.”
“So much the better. Then you’ll be agreeably disappointed. If you expect nothing or worse, you get the right kind of a surprise; whereas, when a woman loves a man, she idealises him and is sure to get the wrong kind of a surprise.”
“You can’t possibly know how wise what you’ve just said is, Theresa Dunham,” said Emily. “But there is one thing wiser—and that is, not to marry, not to risk. I’m able to make my living. My extravagant tastes are under control. And I’m content—except in ways in which nothing he can give me could help.”