"Yes, I do. She wears a dinky miniature of you against her naked heart. Yes, I guess I understand…. And I guess she's that kind of a girl all unselfishness and innocence, and generous perversity and—quixotic love…. It's too bad, Louis. I guess you're up against it for fair."
He surveyed the younger man, shook his head:
"They can't stand for her, can they?"
"No."
"And she won't stand for snaking you out of the fold. That's it, I fancy?"
"Yes."
"Too bad—too bad. She's a fine woman—a very fine little woman. That's the kind a man ought to marry and bother the Almighty with gratitude all the rest of his life. Well—well! Your family is your own after all; and I live in Dartford, thank God!—not on lower Fifth Avenue or Tenth Street."
He started away, halted, came back:
"Couldn't you run away with her?" he asked anxiously.
"She won't," replied Neville, unsmiling.