"Would you promise to love me always just as you do now?"
"I certainly would. I shall."
She lowered her eyes. Her heart sank.
"Wouldn't you?" he asked.
"No," replied she. "How can I—or anyone—honestly say how he or she'll feel about a person they don't know through and through—a month ahead—let alone a year—ten years—twenty? You know that's true, Basil. You're not honest with yourself—or with me."
He was silent, was watching her with sullen, suspicious eyes.
"It seems to me," she went on, "that love—real love—ought to make you careful. If we were a boy and a girl, without experience or intelligence or anything but hazy, rosy emotions——"
"You and I never will agree about love," he interrupted, impatiently. "But that's a small matter. The only point is that we love each other. Love's like a rose, Courtney. Tear it apart to see what it's made of and you lose the rose and have only withered petals."
"Yes—one kind of love. But is it the kind to build one's life upon?"
"I'm not going to argue with you. Have your way, if you will. You'll soon get enough of work—of this fantastic idea of independence, as you call it. As if I'd not be too afraid of losing your love not to respect your rights and consider you always and in every way."