“No. There must not be any ‘perhaps.’ There can’t be if you and I are to give up everything—and everybody—and think only of ourselves. And then—if I were absolutely sure I loved you enough to do that—I should—yes, then more than ever, I should have to think of you. If I came to be the cause of spoiling your life, your success with your painting and all that, I should never forgive myself.”
“Nonsense! You spoil my life! You! Why, you will be the one who will make me sure to succeed. With you to work for, and to help me, I can do anything. Just give me the chance to prove it.... But there! I guess I see how it is. You don’t love me, after all.”
“You mustn’t say that. Bob, you said just now that if Uncle Foster really cared for me he would want to do what would make me happiest. If you really care, as you say you do, you, too, will want me to be happy. How can I be, knowing that what I am doing is sure to make my uncle and your grandfather miserable, and might, unless we were both very sure, make you and me miserable later on? I can’t. You mustn’t ask me to.”
He leaned back in the chair. For a moment he looked at her. Then he rose to his feet.
“Yes,” he said, gloomily. “I see. You have thought it over, haven’t you?... Well, all right. If the idea of marrying me makes you miserable I should be the last to coax you into doing it. You are right there, I guess.... Well, good-by.”
She, too, rose.
“No,” she said, hurriedly. “No, Bob, it isn’t good-by. That is, unless you want it to be.”
“What is it, then?”
“It is just—just wait. Wait and see. We needn’t—no, we mustn’t—consider ourselves engaged. We mustn’t even talk about that yet awhile between ourselves. If you are willing for us to go on as friends, good friends, and wait until—until we both know the right thing to do, then—well, I should like that very much indeed. That would make me happy.”
He turned and caught her hand.