Again Mary took time for consideration. Her face now was as grave as his. At last she said, without raising her eyes: “I think you ought to go.”
He groaned. “I was afraid you would say that,” he admitted. “And I suppose you are right.”
“Yes, I think I am. If your father needs you and wants you, and if your career will not be influenced for harm, I—well, I think you should do as he wishes.”
“And my own wishes shouldn't count, I suppose?”
“Why, no, not in this case; not much, at any rate. Do you think they should?”
“Perhaps not. But—but yours?”
“Mine?”
“Yes. Do YOU want me to go away?” He leaned forward in his chair and repeated earnestly: “Do you, Mary?”
She looked at him and her eyes fell before the look in his. Her heart began to beat quickly and she glanced apprehensively toward the partly opened door. He rose and closed it. Then he came close to her.
“Mary,” he said, earnestly, “do you know why this appeal of Dad's has hit me so very hard? Why it is going to be so mighty difficult to say yes and leave here? It isn't because I hate to give up Harvard. I do hate that, of course, but I'd do it in a minute for Dad. It isn't that. It's because I can't—I just can't think of leaving you. You have come to be—”