“It doesn’t matter if I have.”
The retort frightened him with the glimpse of what she still expected of him, and what he was still so unable to give.
“That means you’ve said yes?” he pursued, to gain time.
“Yes or no—it doesn’t matter. I had to say something. What I want is your advice.”
“At the eleventh hour?”
“Or the twelfth.” She paused. “What shall I do?” she questioned, with a sudden accent of helplessness.
He looked at her as helplessly. He could not say: “Ask yourself—ask your parents.” Her next word would sweep away such frail hypocrisies. Her “What shall I do?” meant “What are you going to do?” and he knew it, and knew that she knew it.
“I’m a bad person to give any one matrimonial advice,” he began, with a strained smile; “but I had such a different vision for you.”
“What kind of a vision?” She was merciless.
“Merely what people call happiness, dear.”