"You don't believe me?"
"Yes. Go on."
"He has it in him, I'm confident, to write plays—strong plays.
Does he ever write except ephemeral space stuff for the paper?"
"No."
"And he never will so long as he has you to go home to. He lives beyond his means because he will have you in comfortable surroundings and dressed to stimulate his passion. If he would marry you, it might be a little better—though still he would never amount to anything as long as his love lasted—the kind of love you inspire. But he will never marry you. I learned that from what I know of his ideas and from what I've observed as to your relations—not from anything he ever said about you."
If Susan had been of the suspicious temperament, or if she had been a few years older, the manner of this second protest might have set her to thinking how unlike Drumley, the inexpert in matters of love and passion, it was to analyze thus and to form such judgments. And thence she might have gone on to consider that Drumley's speeches sounded strangely like paraphrases of Spenser's eloquent outbursts when he "got going." But she had not a suspicion. Besides, her whole being was concentrated upon the idea Drumley was trying to put into words. She asked:
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because I love him," replied Drumley with feeling. "We're about the same age, but he's been like my son ever since we struck up a friendship in the first term of Freshman year."
"Is that your only reason?"
"On my honor." And so firmly did he believe it, he bore her scrutiny as she peered into his face through the dimness.