She was not looking at him; but she was seeing his face as it was when swollen and distorted by drink. She answered hastily, "Oh, I couldn't do that."
"Why not?"
"I can't marry till—till I'm independent. I've been making a lot of plans. I'm going to work early next month."
"What nonsense!" he cried. "Courtney, do you realize you've not yet said a single word of love? What is the matter? Is it our meeting in this house?"
"Perhaps. I don't know. I don't understand it myself." Why was her mind so perverse? Why did it thrust at her the things it was unjust to remember, generous and necessary to forget? Why was she critical, aloof, instead of responsive and generously glad? She went on: "It may be the cold. My nose feels queer, and——"
"We must marry, right away," he insisted, frowning upon her lack of seriousness. "We've been separated too long already."
That seemed to her to explain. But it did not remove. She said, "Not until I'm independent."
"But that means years—years!"
"Oh, no," protested she. "Not the kind of independence I mean. I simply want to be sure I could earn my living if it were necessary."
"But it isn't necessary. And life is so short, dearest. And at most we'll have few enough years of happiness."