"No."
"It will break her heart."
"You needn't tell me that. Don't I know it?" His voice was sharp with the tension of suppressed emotion.
He dropped into a chair, then jumped up and placed one for her. "Sit down, sit down," he said, "and don't make me forget my manners. Somehow this thing gets me as nothing has ever gotten me before. It isn't that I mind going—I mind hurting—Jean—"
"You have always hated to hurt people," Emily said. "In some ways it's a sign of weakness."
"Don't scold," he begged. "I know I'm not much of a fellow, but you'll be sorry for me a little, won't you, Emily?"
She did not melt as he had expected to the appeal in his voice. "The thing we have to think of now," she said, "is not being sorry for you, but how we can get Jean married before twelve o'clock tomorrow—"
"Oh, of course we can't."
"Of course we can—if we make up our minds to it, and it's the only thing to do."
"But nothing is ready."