philanthropy seems to mean more to you than love you might make a note of that. You've filled my life up—every hour of it"
His voice grew uneven; stopped, and he stood still, looking into the fire. For a little while she did not speak. Then she said:
"What had you wanted me to do?"
"To come away with me to-morrow." His voice changed eagerly. "I could arrange that quite easily. And then you'd go to the States, and I'd meet you somewhere."
"And your work?"
He felt the twinge. But it was a light one. Beside her nothing else was of moment.
"That doesn't matter," he said.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, it doesn't matter. You come first."
"Then you—meant to desert?"
"I tell you it doesn't matter," he said impatiently. "They wouldn't catch me. I know more than any of them."
"Oh!" Jennifer leaned back, covering her face. "And you are so proud of what you have done in your work."
"I would be more proud of your love for me," he said sincerely.
"And then?"
"I could get work somehow. Anything that paid. I'm strong. And I am good at draughtsmanship. I might get into an architect's office. I wouldn't let things be hard for you, Jennifer."
He came near, almost timidly, as though afraid that she might deny that which she seemed to be giving. Her eyes ran over. He was blooded to the wild ways and the long trails. The very breath of them spoke in his daily speech, and she knew she had never plumbed his love for her until now.
"I told you once before that you were a better man than I knew," she said. "I tell you again. There is something too great in you to be spoiled, Dick. You must make it easy for me to do what I know to be right."
His face darkened again. He knelt a knee on the couch beside her.
