‘I know what you are thinking,’ he said. ‘The thought is as inevitable as my consciousness of it.’
For an instant she looked at him.
‘Yes, you look the thought. Why have I not spoken to you in this way before? Why have I waited until you are obliged to suspect my sincerity?’
‘My thought is not so easily read, then,’ said Marian.
‘To be sure it hasn’t a gross form, but I know you wish—whatever your real feeling towards me—that I had spoken a fortnight ago. You would wish that of any man in my position, merely because it is painful to you to see a possible insincerity. Well, I am not insincere. I have thought of you as of no other woman for some time. But—yes, you shall have the plain, coarse truth, which is good in its way, no doubt. I was afraid to say that I loved you. You don’t flinch; so far, so good. Now what harm is there in this confession? In the common course of things I shouldn’t be in a position to marry for perhaps three or four years, and even then marriage would mean difficulties, restraints, obstacles. I have always dreaded the thought of marriage with a poor income. You remember?
Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is—Love forgive us!—cinders, ashes, dust.
You know that is true.’
‘Not always, I dare say.’
‘But for the vast majority of mortals. There’s the instance of the Reardons. They were in love with each other, if ever two people were; but poverty ruined everything. I am not in the confidence of either of them, but I feel sure each has wished the other dead. What else was to be expected? Should I have dared to take a wife in my present circumstances—a wife as poor as myself?’
‘You will be in a much better position before long,’ said Marian. ‘If you loved me, why should you have been afraid to ask me to have confidence in your future?’