“And you,” he pursued, “what should YOU say?”
“I? I never thought about such a thing. You mustn’t ask me, if you’re serious; and if you’re not—”
“But I am; I am deeply serious. I would like, to know how the case strikes you. I shall be so grateful if you will tell me.”
“I’m sorry I can’t, Mr. Breckon. Why don’t you ask poppa?”
“No, I see now I sha’n’t be able. I feel too much, after telling you, as if I had been posing. The reality has gone out of it all. And I’m ashamed.”
“You mustn’t be,” she said, quietly; and she added, “I suppose it would be like a kind of defeat if you didn’t go back?”
“I shouldn’t care for the appearance of defeat,” he said, courageously. “The great question is, whether somebody else wouldn’t be of more use in my place.”
“Nobody could be,” said she, in a sort of impassioned absence, and then coming to herself, “I mean, they wouldn’t think so, I don’t believe.”
“Then you advise—”
“No, no! I can’t; I don’t. I’m not fit to have an opinion about such a thing; it would be crazy. But poppa—”