“And now you’ve made up your mind you’d be in my way,” he said irritably; “that’s it, that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I wasn’t thinking of you; I was thinking of myself.”
He believed this an evasion, and the way his eyebrows came together in the old bear-like stare plainly showed it.
“Inga, is that the truth?”
“Yes, it is,” she said in her low musical voice. “What we do is so different. If I should work here with you I should be overpowered by you. I must get by myself, do the little things I can do. Don’t you understand?”
“Is that the effect I have on you now?” he said slowly.
“If I tried to work here with you I should only sit and watch what you are doing, and I want to work—I must work, for myself!”
“I misunderstood you then,” he said, his voice returning to gentleness. “Thought you were thinking of me and I can’t bear to feel that you are always making the sacrifice.”
“No, no, Mr. Dan,” she said hastily, fingers clutching the covering of the table against which she stood, “I must think of myself, too, don’t you see?”
“Yes, yes, of course, dear,” he said hastily. He looked at her, hesitated and once more they retreated before the issue which lay implacably ahead.