“But how did you get along with your paper during all that worry?” she asked; and before he answered she added, “I don’t see how you could write anything.”

“Worry is a bad producer, but a good critic,” Henry replied.  “And I didn’t try to write much,” he added.

She put her elbows on the arm of her chair, rested her chin on her hand and leaned toward him.  “Do you know what I’ve been thinking of ever since I came home?” she asked.

“Well,” he answered, smiling on her, “as you haven’t told me and as I am not a mind-reader, I can’t say that I do.”

“Must I tell you?”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t be put out?”

“Surely not.  You wouldn’t want to tell me if you thought it would put me out, would you?”

“No, but I was afraid this might.”  She hesitated.  “I have been thinking that you ought to go into business with father.  Wait a moment, now, please.  You said you wouldn’t be put out.  You see how much he needs you, and you ought to be willing to make a personal sacrifice.  You”—­

He reached over and put his hand on her head.  She looked into his eyes.  “Ellen, there is but one thing that binds me to a past that was a hardship, but which after all was a liberty; and that one thing is the fact that I am independent of the Colossus, the mill where thousands of feet are treading.  I have one glimpse of freedom, and that is through the window of my office.  It isn’t possible that you can wholly understand me, but let me tell you one time for all that I shall have nothing to do with the store.”

She put his hand off her head and settled back in her chair.  “I thought you might if I asked you, but I ought to have known that nothing I could say would have any effect.  You don’t care for me; you don’t care for any of us.”

“Ellen, it is but natural that you should side with father against me, and it is also natural that I should decide in favor of myself.  You may say that on my part it is selfishness, and I may say that it is more just than selfish.  But you must not say that I don’t care for you.”

“Oh, it is easy enough for you to say that you do care for me,” she replied.  “It costs but a breath that must be breathed anyway; but if you really cared for me you would do as I ask you—­as I beg of you.”

“Well,” and he laughed at her, “there is a charming narrowness in that view, I must say.  If I love you I will grant whatever you may ask; and if you love me—­then what?  Shall I answer?”

“Yes,” she said, “as you seem to know what answer will be most acceptable to you.”

“No, not the answer most acceptable to me, but the one that seems to be the most consistent.  And if you love me,” he continued, in answer to the question, “you will not ask me to make a painful sacrifice.”  He looked earnestly at her and added:  “I think you’d better call me a crank and dismiss the subject.”