“We have talked all that over. Ishbel will manage to protect herself. What are bobbies for —”
“It won’t do. A policeman at the door! People would soon hear of it—and stay away. Besides he is a fiend for resource —”
“Yes—but Mr. Jones can’t last much longer. And then—well, I fancy Ishbel will marry Dark—he’s on his feet again, and will be home before long.”
“Ishbel will never give up her work. Remember she took it up because it seemed to her the most vital thing she could find in life, not because she was driven to earn her bread. And it has become a sort of religion with her.”
“Ishbel never had been in love then! But if she kept the business on, she would have a husband to protect her. You would be out of it —”
“But not yet!”
“We are none of us willing you should wait, Ishbel least of all.”
“I know, but I can’t sacrifice her. I should be a beast. Harold is capable of writing the most frightful anonymous letters to hundreds of people —”
“Why the devil isn’t he rotting in South Africa? When I think of the hundreds of fine fellows—Oh, well, I’ve given over trying to understand space and fate. But I wish I could have run across him down there. I’d have shot him like a dog if I’d got the chance, and never felt a pang.”
“So should I! That is the most dreadful result of it all—the hardness, the callousness, the cynicism —”