"Then," said Victor, following his own train of thought, "we must fight this out between ourselves. I was hoping I'd have your father to help me. I'm sure, as soon as you faced him with me, you'd realize that your feeling about me is largely a delusion."
"And you?" said Jane softly. "Your feeling about me—the feeling that made you kiss me—was that delusion?"
"It was—just what you saw," replied he, "and nothing more. The idea of marrying you—of living my life with you doesn't attract me in the least. I can't see you as my wife." He looked at her impatiently. "Have you no imagination? Can't you see that you could not change, and become what you'd have to be if you lived with me?"
"You can make of me what you please," repeated she with loving obstinacy.
"That is not sincere!" cried he. "You may think it is, but it isn't. Look at me, Jane."
"I haven't been doing anything else since we met," laughed she.
"That's better," said he. "Let's not be solemn. Solemnity is pose, and when people are posing they get nowhere. You say I can make of you what I please. Do you mean that you are willing to become a woman of my class—to be that all your life—to bring up your children in that way—to give up your fashionable friends—and maid—and carriages—and Paris clothes—to be a woman who would not make my associates and their families uncomfortable and shy?"
She was silent. She tried to speak, but lifting her eyes before she began her glance encountered his and her words died upon her lips.
"You know you did not mean that," pursued he. "Now, I'll tell you what you did mean. You meant that after you and I were married—or engaged—perhaps you did not intend to go quite so far as marriage just yet."
The color crept into her averted face.