She left her hand in his, because she was so fond of him and because his eyes looked a little frightened in spite of his usual self-confidence, but she said:
"No, I can't marry you, Richard."
He dropped her hand. "Why can't you?" he demanded.
"Because I don't feel like that," she told him. "I don't feel like that about you."
"But, Joan," his voice was eager, "we could do such splendid things together; if you won't have me for myself will you have me because of the work? I can help you to get away; I can help you to make a career. Oh, Joan, do listen! I know I could do it; I'll be a doctor and you'll be a doctor, we'll be partners—Joan, do say 'Yes.'"
She almost laughed, it struck her that it was like a nursery game of make-believe. "I'll be a doctor and you'll be a doctor!" It sounded so funny; she visualized the double plate on their door front: "Doctor Richard Benson," and underneath: "Doctor Joan Benson." But she reached again for his hand and stroked it gently as if she were soothing a little brother whose house of bricks she had inadvertently knocked down.
"I'm not the marrying sort," she said.
"God knows what you are, then!" he burst out rudely. Then his eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, Richard!" she implored, "don't stop being my friend, don't refuse to help me just because I can't give you what you want."
Now it was his turn to laugh ruefully. "You may not be the marrying sort," he said, "but you're a real woman for all that; you look at things from a purely feminine point of view."