“Then, Arthur, you are not looking at it practically.”
“No, and I don't want to,” he replied doggedly.
“That is a mistake. A little bit of life may not be practical, but all the rest of it is; and for the gratification of that little bit, there is all the rest to be lived through.”
Arthur looked puzzled. He rearranged the orchid in his coat before replying. He had found time to think of the orchid.
“I don't understand all that,” he said. “I only know that I love you, and that I should be miserable without you. Besides, if that little bit is love—I suppose you admit there is such a thing as love?”
Dora winced. She was looking through the trees across the peaceful evening river.
“Yes,” she answered gently. “I suppose so.”
Arthur Agar had been brought up in an atmosphere of futile discussion, but he had never wanted anything in vain. There are women—fools—who dare to bring up children thus in a world where wanting in vain is the chief characteristic of daily life. Arthur was ready enough to go on discussing his future thus, but never doubted that it would all come to his desire in the end. He was like a woman in so much as he failed to understand an argument which he could not meet.
They walked on amidst the flowering shrubs, and Dora was filled with a disquieting sense of having failed to convince him.
“I do not want to hurry you,” said Arthur presently, with a maddening equanimity. “You can give me your answer some other time.”