“You don’t see me as I am, Horatia. Now close your eyes. I can’t have you looking at me, I might exaggerate. Listen. I am thirty-five. I have no great enthusiasms—except you. I have no money to speak of, no home—my faith in my feeble talents is shaken—my faith in the world isn’t settled. I’m not even strong physically. There’s nothing, Horatia.”
“There’s you.”
“There’s me, transfused and illuminated by your feeling for me, by your wonderful romance, by the brightness of your own spirit. But if you withdraw it——”
“Silly—it isn’t true, and if it were I shan’t withdraw it ever. Because it’s love and can’t be withdrawn.”
“Love is perishable.”
“Not my love.” The splendid perennial dogmatism spoke again.
He was serious. Then, “I want a promise from you, Horatia. If the time comes when you don’t see it with all this enthusiasm you’ll tell me—won’t you—freely, knowing that already you’ve given me more than I deserve—and that I won’t be hurt or angry—will you?”
At his insistence she promised.
“When can we be married?”
“Not too soon, Horatia—not till you know me, not as an editor but as a man, a man who makes mistakes and is stupid.”