"I know," said she, surprised that these truths did not move her in the least, nor his looks, his tones, so charged with entreaty she such a short time ago would have found irresistible. "But I've thought it out, and I realize everything depends on my getting that feeling of independence. I'll not risk again what I've been through."
"You know very well, that couldn't happen. As for your working, why, dear, unless a woman's been bred to making a living, it's almost impossible for her."
"Nevertheless I must try."
"If you loved me, you'd not talk like this," cried he, bitterly.
Instead of protesting, she became thoughtful. "Do you really think so?" she asked. "I wonder if that's true."
"Certainly not," retreated he, alarmed. "We love each other. But your way of acting and talking has upset me. I ought not have come here. We should have met over at Tippecanoe."
"You don't seem to see my point of view, Basil."
"I do, but it's a mere notion. A very fine notion," he hastened to add, though he could not make his tone other than grudging, "but foolish."
"It was my dependence that put me in such a frightful position with Richard. And——"
"Courtney," he interrupted, between anger and appeal, "please don't repeat that comparison of what you were to him and what you and I are to each other. It—hurts me, and it's not fair."