"No; I was not. I will say it, for you will understand me. What you tell me is true enough, and I am sorry that it should be so. Is it not to some extent my fault?"
"Your fault?" cried Reanda, leaning forward and looking into her eyes. "How? I do not understand."
"I blame myself," answered Francesca, quietly. "I have kept you out of the world, perhaps, and in many ways. Here you live, day after day, as though nothing else existed for you. In the morning, long before I am awake, you come down your staircase through that door, and go up that ladder, and work, and work, and work, all day long, until it is dark, as you have worked to-day, and yesterday, and for months. And when you might and should be out of doors, or associating with other people, as just now, I sit and talk to you and take up all your leisure time. It is wrong. You ought to see more of other men and women. Do men of genius never marry? It seems to me absurd!"
"Genius!" exclaimed Reanda, shaking his head sadly. "Do not use the word of me."
"I will do as other people do," answered Francesca. "But that is not the question. The truth is that you live pent up in this old house, like a bird in a cage. I want you to spread your wings."
"To go away for a time?" asked Reanda, anxiously.
"I did not say that. Perhaps I should. Yes, if you could enjoy a journey, go away—for a time."
She spoke with some hesitation and rather nervously, for he had said more than she had meant to propose.
"Just to make a change," she added, after a moment's pause, as he said nothing. "You ought to see more of other people, as I said. You ought to mix with the world. You ought at least to offer yourself the chance of marrying, even if you think that you might not find a wife to your taste."
"If I do not find one here—" He did not complete the sentence, but smiled a little.