“Love changes a man’s point of view,” Howard replied, timid and apologetic before this quiet, relentless other-self.
“But it doesn’t change the facts of life, does it? It doesn’t change character, does it?”
“I think so. For instance, it has changed me. It has made a man of me. It has been the inspiration of the past year, strengthening me, making me ambitious, energetic. Have I not thought of her all the time, worked for her?”
“You have been uncommonly persistent—as you always are when you are thwarted.” The Visitor wore a satirical smile. “But a spurt of inspiration is one thing. A wife—responsibility—fetters——”
“Not when one loves.”
“That depends upon the kind of love—and the kind of woman—and the kind of man.”
“Could there be any higher kind of love than ours?”
“Most romantic, most high-minded—quite idyllic.” The Visitor’s tone was gently mocking. “And I don’t deny that you may go on loving each the other. But—how does she fit in with your scheme of life? What does she really know of or care about your ambitions? Why, you had so little confidence in her that you didn’t dare to think of marrying her until you had an income which you once would have thought wealth—an income which, by the way, already begins to seem small to you.”
“No, it wasn’t lack of confidence in her,” protested Howard. “It was lack of confidence in myself.”
“True, that did have something to do with it, I grant you. And that reminds me—what has become of all your cowardice about responsibility?”