“O!” I said. “If it had been for anything else I might have been able to contribute, but I can’t for that. That is too drastic. You must ask your father. Besides,” I said, “I could hardly bring myself to finance a scheme which leaves me so high and dry.”
“Poor Dombeen!” she said. “But you’d soon get used to being alone. And I’d come down often for the week-end. As a maffact, you’d hardly miss me.”
“Train up a child and away she goes,” I quoted.
“But you wouldn’t have me not be independent?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Everything is all right: just as it should be. An old man must expect to lose a young girl just when she is most companionable. But you must concede him a little melancholy. After all, it is a compliment to you, so concede it purely in that light. It’s as proper for me to regret your going as for you to want to go.”
“You dear old thing!” she said. “I hate to leave you, but what should one do? If you absolutely needed me, of course . . . but you don’t. You’re strong, you go about, you have your prints and your gardening.”
“And even if I hadn’t,” I said, “I should not allow you to stay. If I am to collapse, it shall not be an artist on the threshold of life with a passion to express herself in oils who shall bring my beef-tea. That would be too unfair. But you must understand that nothing can be done until your father consents.”
“I’ll write to him to-night,” she said. “Unless you will?”
“No,” I replied firmly. “I’ll go a long way to help you, but I won’t sign my own death warrant. No seaman beseeches to be marooned.”
Eustace replied that he thought he might be willing, but it would be well to discuss the matter properly. Would she stay with him for a few days and bring some of her work with her.