“Because I dread it a little for her.”
“You have more cause to dread it for yourself,” the other said sharply. “Given considerable luck Ivy may go through it practically scot free. But for you, as I see it, it can be nothing but disaster. She may get through it comfortably enough—if she never goes East—” Sên winced a little and his eyes were grave—“but if you persist in it, you are running your head very tightly into a very rough noose.”
“I’ll risk that,” Sên’s eyes were smiling again, “and because I believe I can keep it from being sometimes an inconvenience to her, I do persist in it, Sir Charles.”
“Is it fair to her to persist in what you own you dislike?”
“Some of its possible rasps—probable rasps—only, and between which and her I believe that I can always stand. I intend to. And I like it,” Sên added, “incomparably more than I dislike—know and admit that I should dislike—one or two of its quite possible consequences.”
“Quite possible,” Snow repeated with quiet significance.
“I like it immensely, Sir,” Sên said with a boyish laugh but a man’s steady purpose and pride in his eyes.
“But you fear it.”
“No, scarcely fear it.”
“Fear it,” Snow insisted. “Take the way out. I beg you to—for both your sakes.”