And so it went on. It was uphill work, I can tell you, trying to convince Terry that he wasn't the meanest little worm that ever crawled on the earth.
Towards three o'clock the moment came when I judged it safe to mention the word "marriage." If, I said, he thought there was any doubt about her feeling for him, why didn't he put the matter to the obvious test? "Go to her straightforwardly and say: 'I don't want to give up your charming society, but I really must have that job. If, however, you would care to marry me and accompany me to Australia, the difficulty would be rather neatly solved.'"
Marriage? It was absurd to think of it, he said. He had never dreamed of such a thing, and he never would dream of it. He wouldn't insult her by even discussing it abstractly. What prospects had he? What sort of a life could he ask her to share with him? ... There were some things too ridiculous to be worth discussing, and that was one.
Nevertheless, I objected, he had got to discuss it, because it was the only thing left to discuss. To my mind, I said, it was only fair that he should give her the chance of accepting or refusing him. She had shown pretty plainly that she didn't want him to leave her; that was quite as much as she could be expected to do on her own. It was for him to take the next step.
"But—think of it, man! Three hundred a year for the two of us, after the sort of life she's been used to! It's monstrous!"
"That's for her to decide. If she thinks it is, then it is. But if she thinks it isn't—"
"Well?"
"Then it mightn't be.... You never know. Miracles have been done on three hundred a year before now."
"No man has a right to expect miracles," he said.
"Every man has a right to perform them," I answered. (Really, for three o'clock in the morning, our conversation was quite brilliant.)