“Old pig!” said Harmony. “I will marry if I please.”
Nevertheless Peter's refusal and the master's speech had told somewhat. She was colder, less vibrant. Peter came to her, stood close, looking down at her.
“I've said a lot I didn't mean to,” he said. “There's only one thing I haven't said, I oughtn't to say it, dear. I'm not going to marry you—I won't have such a thing on my conscience. But it doesn't hurt a woman to know that a man loves her. I love you, dear. You're my heaven and my earth—even my God, I'm afraid. But I will not marry you.”
“Not even if I ask you to?”
“Not even then, dear. To share my struggle—”
“I see,” slowly. “It is to be a struggle?”
“A hard fight, Harmony. I'm a pauper practically.”
“And what am I?”
“Two poverties don't make a wealth, even of happiness,” said Peter steadily. “In the time to come, when you would think of what you might have been, it would be a thousand deaths to me, dear.”
“People have married, women have married and carried on their work, too, Peter.”