"You could marry to-morrow, if you'd accept the proposal I came to make to you."
Keith gave a keen look at his father. He had been touched by the bent figure, the wasted face; the evident signs of sickness and suffering. He had resolved to be very tender with him. But not even pity could blind him to the detestable cunning of that move. It revolted him. He had not yet realized that the old man was fighting for his life.
"I'm not open to any proposals," he said coldly. "I've chosen my profession, and I mean to stick to it."
"That's all very well; but you should 'ave a solid standby, over and above."
"Literature doesn't leave much room for anything over and above."
"That's where you're making a mistake. Wot you want is variety of occupation. There's no reason why you shouldn't combine literature with a more profitable business."
"I can't make it combine with any business at all."
"Well, I can understand your being proud of your profession."
"Can you understand my profession being proud of me?"
Isaac smiled. Yes, he could well understand it.