"A year?" I think he smiled at the surprise and disappointment in my voice.
"During which year," he said, "you will not meet each other except by accident, and you will not correspond."
I said nothing, but he read my thoughts.
"It isn't fair to you and Lucy? At least it is fair to me. Nobody has thought about me. I have had to think for myself, and for the children. Admit this—if your love stands a year's test you will stand a far greater chance of happiness than if you ran away together now, unblessed by the man you had wronged, and unclergied. Admit this, too—that if your love doesn't stand the test, then my life has been ruined for as futile, puerile, misbegotten a passion as ever reared its head under an honest man's roof. Admit it! Admit it."
"I'm not sure that I admit any such thing."
"Then, my dear fellow," he said, "your mental and moral capacity are on precisely the same plane.… I'm sure you don't want to injure Lucy. Give her this chance to straighten out and get untangled. If there is any truth in your love for her you will see that this way is best for her."
"I am thinking of her happiness."
"Are you?"
"She's been very patient, John. I can't tell you how patient."
"For God's sake don't try to tell me. Haven't I had enough to bear?"