"'O you do like me a little!'"
As he went on, Mason's tone grew sweet and solemn. It had singular power of suggestion. It developed more of his nature than he knew; his real gravity, and tenderness and purity.
"There you have it," he ended. He struck the ashes out of his pipe and rose.
"I could marry her, but it wouldn't make her happy. It would make her suffer. It is not a light thing to decide. It is a very grave thing. As in the case of the sculptress I thought it an error of judgment on her part, and on my own it would be criminal."
"That's a fine bit of fiction," said Sanborn. "You're too rough on yourself, for you could do the girl a deal of good by marrying her."
"Possibly. In the case of the sculptress the problem is different. She is moving past me like a queen—splendid, supple, a smile of conscious power on her lips, the light of success in her eyes. It's a terrible temptation, I admit, this power to stretch out my hand and stay her. It makes my blood leap, but my sense of justice will not allow of it. I shall let her pass on, beautiful and rapt."
"To marry some confounded pin-head, who will make her a domestic animal, and degrade her into 'my wife, gents'?"
"Possibly. However, my responsibility ends where I say good-bye."
"Don't shirk—don't shirk."
Mason turned on him. His voice lost a little of its coldness.