“Fine, Sue!” he cried. “That's the old fire! Damn it, girl, don't let's be childish about this! You and I don't need to get all of a flutter at the thought of love. If I didn't stir an emotional response in you do you think I'd want you? But I do.” He rose and came to her. He gripped her shoulders and made her look at him. “Child, for God's sake, don't all at once forget everything you know! Where's your humor? Can't you see that this is exactly what you've got to have—that somebody has got to stir you as I'm stirring you now! If I couldn't reach you, it would have to be some one else. A little love won't hurt you any. The real danger I've been fearing is that no man would be able to stir you. That would be the tragedy. You're a live vital girl. You're an artist. Of course you've got to have love. You'll never do real work without it. You'll never even grow up without it.”
She could not meet his eyes. And she had a disheartening feeling that he was reasonable and right, granting the premises of their common philosophy.
He took his hands away. She heard him strike a match and light a cigarette, then move about the room. Then his voice—
“What do you say, Sue—will you pack a bag and start off with me? It'll do both of us good. It'll give us new life for our job.”
She was shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No.”
“If it was only this,” he said, thoughtfully enough—“but it's everything. Peter is lying down on me and now you are failing me utterly.”
She dropped on a chair by the door. “That's the hardest thing you ever said to me, Jacob.”