After the last scrap of the feast had been finished and the dishes cleared away, Frank glanced at his watch. "I have just an hour and a half," he said, "and I have a great deal to say in it." He placed her in an easy chair before the fire and settled himself on a cushion at her feet, where he could look up into her face.
"'The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things,'" quoted Helen lightly.
"Don't be flippant, please."
"Very well, then," she replied, readily adjusting herself to his mood, "what's the trouble?"
"You know," he said in a different tone, "the same old one. Have you nothing to say to me, Helen?"
Her face hardened, ever so slightly, but he saw it and it pained him. "There's no use going over it again," she returned, "but if you insist, I will make my position clear once for all."
"Go on," he answered grimly.
"I'm not a child any longer," Helen began, "I'm a woman, and I want to make the most of my life—to develop every nerve and faculty to its highest and best use. I have no illusions but I have my ideals, and I want to keep them. I want to write—you never can understand how much I want to do it—and I have had a tiny bit of success already. I want to work out my own problems and live my own life, and you want me to marry you and help you live yours. It's no use, Frank," she ended, not unkindly, "I can't do it."
"See here, my little comrade," he returned, "you must think I'm a selfish beast. I'm not asking you to give up your work nor your highest and best development. Isn't there room in your life for love and work too?"
"Love and I parted company long ago," she answered.