He turned away, shrugging his shoulders. “One’s got one’s own right and one’s own wrong,” he grumbled, lighting his pipe.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said.
He would not look at me.
“You’re thinking,” I went on, “what a cad I am not to have written that letter.” I sat down resting my head on my hands. After all—love and liberty—they’re both very sweet.
“I’m thinking,” said Julian, watching the smoke from his pipe abstractedly, “that you will probably write tonight; and I think I know how you’re feeling.”
“Julian,” I said, “must it be tonight? Why? The letter shall go. But must it be tonight?”
Julian hesitated.
“No,” he said; “but you’ve made up your mind, so why put off the inevitable?”
“I can’t,” I exclaimed; “oh, I really can’t. I must have my freedom a little longer.”
“You must give it up some day. It’ll be all the harder when you’ve got to face it.”