"They would shame the present-day idea of 'affinity' right," said Guilford.
I nodded my head, for this was the same theory that Uncle Lancelot had been whispering in my ears since the postman blew his whistle that morning. And yet—
"Maybe you two—don't exactly understand the import of those letters as I do," I suggested, sorry and ashamed before the gaze of their practical eyes. "But to me they mean so much! I have always loved James Christie and—his Unattainable. I can feel for them, and—"
"And you mean to say that you are going to give way to an absurd fancy now—a ridiculous, far-fetched, namby-pamby, quixotic fancy?" mother asked, in a tone of horror.
"I—I'm—afraid so!" I stammered.
"And miss this chance—for all the things you want most? The very things you're toiling day and night to get?"
"And put off the prospect of our marriage?" Guilford demanded. "I had hoped that this business transaction would satisfy the unaccountable desire you seem to have for independence—that after you had circled about a little in the realm of emancipated women and their strained notions of what constitutes freedom, you'd see the absurdity of it all and—come to me."
"I am awfully sorry, Guilford," I answered, dropping my eyes, for I knew that "freedom," "independence" and "emancipation" had nothing on earth to do with my delayed marriage—and I knew that I was doing wrong not to say so. "I am awfully sorry to disappoint you."
"Then you have decided finally?" mother asked in a suspicious voice.
"I believe I have," I answered. "Oh, please don't look at me that way—and please don't cry! I can't help it!"