“This means,” I said, “that you would have to live in the country, and give constant attention to the work. No more jazzing, and very little motoring except to the market? Do you think that’s an existence for a girl of brains and ambition and high spirits, who happens to be an artist too?”
His face took on an expression of perplexity.
“But—but—she’d be married,” he said.
“So you think that love in an isolated cottage surrounded by roosters and incubators, with only one human companion, is a sufficient paradise to offer her? Upon my word, you seem to me to be uncommonly sure of your fascination. She would have to be very fond of you to give up her present home and pursuits, even with the society of a very aged man occasionally thrust upon her, and take to chicken-farming. Doesn’t it occur to you that that would be a big sacrifice?”
“But—but one must begin,” he said. “The poultry business would only be a start. We might go on to much bigger things.”
“It will be time to talk about marriage,” I said, “when you have made some of that progress.”
“Then you refuse to consider me?” he asked ruefully.
“Not at all,” I said. “It is not for me to decide anything. Rose has a father. But I should certainly put what obstacles I could in your way, until you had something better to propose as a means of livelihood than a chicken-farm in the air.”
“But you don’t forbid me to see her, or anything like that?” he asked eagerly.
“Of course not. And I couldn’t if I wanted to. See as much of her as she wants.”