“I ought not,” he said miserably. “It’s not fair to you.”
He felt obliged to bring forward all the objections which obviously presented themselves, but he did so without spirit. For the preposterous idea appealed to him irresistibly. He said, “Wait,” but he didn’t mean it. He abhorred waiting at all times, and above all, waiting for Frankie. She kindled him, thrilled him with her serious madness.
“We can’t waste our best years,” said Frankie. “Really, Lionel, it’s not a silly plan. I’m not rash, you know it. I know this will be the best plan for us both.”
She was determined to hold him tightly, to defend him from his own weakness, to fortify him. For this, any sacrifice of pride, of worldly advantage, was justified. She had to marry Lionel to save him, even if in saving him everything else was lost.
“I’m not convinced,” he insisted, “but, old girl, I haven’t got the strength to refuse. I’d have to be more than mortal to refuse to marry my beautiful girl.”
“Stop being so wretched!” she ordered. “We’re going to be happy. We’re going to help each other.”
He caught her in his arms.
“Darling!” he cried, “I’ll—I’d do anything to make you happy. I’ll try. I’m not good enough, but I’ll try. I—absolutely worship you, Frankie!”
And added, more quietly:
“And when you’re my wife, I’ll amount to something.”