"Why?"
"Because our love's not that sort."
"It's the sort that waits and is trampled on."
"It's strong enough to wait."
"How white your face is, Janey!—you speak brave words, but you're trembling."
"Yes, I'm trembling."
"Because you're not speaking the truth; you're lying—in the face of Love. You see plainly that if you and I wait till we can marry, we shall wait for ever. Our only chance is to take matters into our own hands, and let circumstances and opportunities be damned. You make out that you're denying Love for its own good—that's another lie. 'Wait,' you say, because you're afraid. Why, what have we been doing all these years but 'wait'?—wait, wait; wait till our hearts are sick and our hopes are dust. If we wait any longer our love will die—and then will you find much comfort in the thought that we have 'waited'?"
"But there's the boys, Quentin."
An oath burst from young Lowe.
"The boys! the boys!—that's your war-cry, Janey. I'm nearly sick of it now. And how appropriate!—your brothers are such models of good behaviour, ain't they?"