“Let her be,” he said, stoutly. “I’m not. I’m strong enough and—and earnest enough to put up with anything like that.”
“Oh, don’t you see? She’ll think anything you want to suggest to her, but she’ll always act according to her own impulses and desires.”
(“Just the contrary to me,” she reflected, irrelevantly. “People can make me do anything, but they never change my ideas....”)
“But that’s just what I want her to do!” protested Stephens. “That’s my idea of marriage—that we should both—”
“Don’t argue!” she cried, with sudden violence. “You cannot do this! If you really think any of the things you once said to me—if you have any compassion, and kind human feeling, you can’t try to make your happiness on another person’s pain. You can’t ignore me!”
“But—” he began, “isn’t that just a little—selfish?”
She clasped her hands desperately.
“You can’t do it!” she cried. “You’re kind. You cannot hurt me so!”
He wished to point out to her the extreme unfairness of her position but the sight of her anguish was too much for him. Even when he looked away, he seemed still to see her tear-filled eyes, her face suddenly so worn, so much older, its fine tranquillity, which he had so much admired, its dignity, gone. It was like a sacrilege.
“Please don’t! Please don’t!” he entreated. “I can’t bear to see you suffer!... If you’d only realize that I’m trying to make Andrée happy—”