"My dear fellow—wouldn't you?" Gaston asked, staring.
"Never in the world."
"You would have thought her capable———?"
"Capoabilissima! and I shouldn't have cared."
"Do you think her then capable of doing it again?"
"I don't care if she is; that's the least of all questions."
"The least———?"
"Ah, don't you see, wretched youth," said Waterlow, pausing from his work and looking up—"don't you see that the question of her possibilities is as nothing compared to that of yours? She's the sweetest young thing I ever saw; but even if she happened not to be I should urge you to marry her, in simple self-preservation."
"In self-preservation?"
"To rescue from destruction the last remnant of your independence. That's a much more important matter even than not treating her shabbily. They are doing their best to kill you morally—to render you incapable of individual life."
"They are—they are!" Gaston declared, with enthusiasm.
"Well then, if you believe it, for heaven's sake go and marry her to-morrow!" Waterlow threw down his implements and added, "And come out of this—into the air."
