A flush came to Eleanor’s cheek, and a light gleamed suddenly in her eyes, as if the very wildness of this proposal lent it fascination; but she shook her head, smiling a little sadly.  “You are of my world,” she said:  “you ought to know better than that.  I am not so brave as you think.  I must do what is expected of me, and I am expected to marry Marston Brent.”

“Forget the world and come with me.”

“That is impossible.  If I had only myself to care for, I would; but there are others of whom I must think.”  She was silent for a moment, then looked up at him piteously.  “They have sacrificed so much for me at home,” she said, “and they are so proud of me.  They hope, desire, count on this marriage:  I cannot disappoint them.  Mr. Brent himself has been most kind and patient, and he does not expect very much.  I am a coward, perhaps, but what can I do?”

Again he said, “You can come with me.”

Again she answered, “It is impossible.  Do you not see that it is impossible?  Starting forth on a new career, it would be insane for you to burden yourself with a wife.  As for me, I am no more fit to marry a poor man than to be a housemaid.  Victor, it is hopeless.  For Heaven’s sake, let us talk of it no longer!  The only thing we can do is to forget that we have ever talked of it at all.”

“Will that be easy for you?  I confess that nothing on earth could be harder for me.”

“No, it will not be easy, but I shall try with all my strength to do it.  God only knows,” putting her hand suddenly to her face, “how I shall live if I am not able to do it.”  Then passionately, “Why did you speak?  Why did you make the misery greater by dragging it to the light, so that we could face it, talk of it, discuss it?  Oh why did you do it?”

“Because I wanted to see if you were not made of braver stuff than other women,” said he almost sternly.  “In my maddest hours I never dreamed of speaking, until—­what you said last night.  Thinking of that after I came home, I resolved to give you one opportunity to break through the artificial trammels of your life, and find the freedom you professed to desire.  It was better to do this, I thought, than to be tormented all my life by a regret, a doubt, lest I had lost happiness where one bold stroke might have gained it.”

“And now that you have found that I am not brave, that I am like all the other conventional women of my class, are you not sorry that you have inflicted useless pain upon yourself?”

“Of myself I do not think at all, and even when I think of you I cannot regret having spoken.  Let the misery be what it will, it is something to have faced it together—­it is everything to know that you love me, though you refuse to share my life.”

“You must not say that,” said she, starting and shrinking as if from a blow.  “How can I venture to acknowledge that I love you when I am going to marry Marston Brent?”