Beatrice had a dim perception of what he meant, but she would let him explain. His point of view interested her; though she knew that she ran some risk in leading him into confidential talk.
"I don't think you have made it very clear yet."
"I meant that there are times when you see your work ready laid out. It's there; you didn't plan it—you simply can't mistake it. Then if you go straight ahead and do the best you can, you can't go wrong."
"But when you don't feel sure? When you haven't the conviction that it is your task?"
"Then," he said quietly, "I think it's better to sit tight and wait. When the time to act comes, you certainly will know."
Beatrice pondered this, because it seemed to apply with some force to herself. He had once urged her to take a daring course, to assert her freedom at the cost of sacrificing much that she valued. Though she had courage, she had shrunk from the venture, because she had not the firm conviction that it was justified. She felt drawn to Harding; indeed, she had met no other man whom she liked so well; but there was much against him, and nothing but deep, unquestioning love would warrant her marrying him. That she felt such love she would not admit. It was better to take the advice he had given her and wait. This was the easier for her to do because she believed that he had no suspicion of her real feeling for him.
"After all," she said, smiling, "your responsibility ends with yourself. I don't see why you should interfere with other people. You can farm your land as you think fit, without trying to make us copy you."
"That sounds all right; but when you come to think of it, you'll see that neither of us can stand alone."
"We got along pretty well before you came."
"I don't doubt it. The trouble is that what was best a few years ago isn't best now. I wish I could make your father realize that."