That early morning talk with Mr. Welles had left Marise trembling with helpless sorrow and exasperation.  She sat on the bench where he had left her, and felt the nervous tears stinging her eyes.  When she looked up and saw Vincent Marsh was standing there, extremely pale, as visibly shaken as she, as visibly little in control of himself, she burst out, “So you too know.  He has just told me that he is really going.  The very date is set.  His cousin has a room in her boarding house engaged for him.  He’s going to work as a clerk to pay for the extra expenses of the life there. Oh!” She struck her hand on the back of the bench.

Vincent Marsh sat down beside her, his eyes on hers.  He said in a curious, low voice, rough and husky, “I wish you would do something for me.  I wish you would think with all your might, deeply, just why you are so opposed to his doing what evidently seems to him a very saintly and heroic action; and then tell me why it is.”

Marise felt this as a challenge.  He was always challenging everything.  This time she was more than ready.  “I don’t need any time to think of reasons!” she cried.  “It’s obvious to anyone with any sense for the reality of human values, who isn’t fooled by threadbare old words.  It’s one of those wasteful, futile, exasperating tricks people play on themselves in the name of ‘duty.’  He’s throwing away something real and true, something that could add to the richness of human life, he’s throwing away the happiness that comes of living as suits his nature, and so creating a harmony that enriches everybody who touches him.  And what’s he doing it for?  To satisfy a morbid need for self-sacrifice.  He’s going to do harm, in all probability, mix up a situation already complicated beyond solution, and why is he?  So that he can indulge himself in the perverse pleasure of the rasp of a hair-shirt.  He doesn’t really use his intelligence to think, to keep a true sense of proportions; he takes an outworn and false old ideal of self-sacrifice, and uses it not to do anybody any real good, but to put a martyr’s crown on his head.”

She became conscious that her words were having a singular effect upon Vincent.  A dark flush had come over all his face.  His gaze on her was extraordinary in its intentness, in its eagerness, in its fierceness.  She stopped suddenly, as though he had broken in on what she was saying.

He did not stir from his place, but to her he seemed to tower taller.  Into his dark, intent face came an exultant look of power and authority which fell on her like a hot wind.  With a loud knocking of her heart she knew.  Before he spoke, she knew what he would say.  And he saw that.