Without stirring, she demanded: "Why?"
He shook his head free. "To have—owned up—let this come to pass. I love you: but that's all I dare say to you."
"Isn't it, maybe, enough for me?"
"I mean—I'm mad to marry you. But how can I ask you to have me? What have I to offer you? The position of wife to a poverty-stricken, half-grown playwright! It's out of reason...."
"But possibly—am I not the one to judge of that?"
"No: I won't have you marry a man unable to provide for you in the way to which you've been educated. It's a point of honour—"
"But I have—"
"You must understand: I've got to be able—able!—to humour your every whim. With things that way—what of your own you choose to spend on yourself won't count. The issue is my ability to give you everything."
"But that will come—"
"When? I can't promise—I hardly dare hope—"