He straightened himself as from surprise. "I could not like you to do that—leave the house."
"It would only be possible provided I went to you."
For a moment he seemed dumfounded. "From his house to me? But, Lydia"—the boldness of the proposition was so staggering to Spencer, he felt that he must have misunderstood her, and was groping for her meaning. His consternation was evidently not unexpected, nor did it elicit reproach. "No one would call on me, of course," she said dryly. Then she added with cumulating tenseness, as one pleading a cause which she suspects to be hopeless, "It would mean the end of everything else in the world which I care for except one—my love for you. We could leave this place forever, Harry, go to Australia, the world's end, wherever you will, and be happy."
A scampering squirrel with a nut in its mouth hopped into view on the path, scanned them for an instant, then bounded into the underbrush. But only just in time. It seemed to Spencer that the little animal was grinning at him, and he had reached for a missile as an outlet for his doubly harassed feelings.
"My dear girl, you are crazy."
"Very likely, Harry."
"I love you to distraction, God knows, but that sort of thing is out of date. Why, Lydia, you would be the first to tire of it. Happy? We should neither of us be happy, for what would we have to live on?" The final inflection of his voice was veritable triumph, so irrefutable appeared his logic.
Lydia gave a profound sigh. "I knew you would say that," she answered quickly. "But it was our only chance. Suppose I get my divorce and we marry here, what have we to live on? I have three thousand a year of my own. And you?"
"Not quite so much—assured."