"But what are you going to do when you get there?"
"I 'm going to work at something."
"Work at something! What in the world can you work at? You look as if you had n't strength enough to grind an organ! You must be crazy."
"I can work at anything," she said, almost absently. "Besides, I have money to live on, enough for a long time—several years."
He looked at her moodily, amazed by her indifference.
"It would be a hundred times better for you to stay here and marry me. I 'd take care of you and support you. Ain't that better for a woman than scratching along by herself? Mrs. Seymour says you have n't got a friend in San Francisco."
"No; but I don't mind that. I don't want to marry. I don't ever want to."
"But is n't it better to have a man to work for you, and give you a nice comfortable home, and—well—of course, be fond of you, and all that—than to go off by yourself, trusting to luck to get work? You don't know what you 're in for."
"Perhaps I don't. But truly, there 's no use talking about it any more. I can't. I could n't, no matter what happened. It was kind of you to think of me. Thank you, and good-by."
