“Well then—­that states your case.  Now let me state mine.  I, too, have an insuperable objection to marriage.  My—­er—­disinclination is probably more soundly based than yours, since it is built upon a wider view of life.  But I, too, want certain things which marriage might bring.  I want a home.  Not too homey a home, in the strictly domestic sense (Aunt Caroline is strictly domestic) but a—­a congenial home.  I want the advice and help of a clever woman together with the sense of permanence and security which, in our imperfect state of civilization, is made possible only by marriage.  And I, too, have my secret fear.  I am afraid that some day I may be driven—­in short, I am afraid of Aunt Caroline.”

Desire’s inquiring eyebrows lifted.

“A man—­afraid of his aunt?”

“Yes,” gloomily, “it is men who are afraid of aunts.  It is not at all funny,” he added as her eyes relaxed, “if you knew Aunt Caroline you wouldn’t think so.  She is determined to have me married and she has a long life of successful effort behind her.  One failure is nothing to an aunt.  She is always quite certain that the next venture will turn out well.  And it usually does.  In brief, I am thirty-five and I go in terror of the unknown.  If I do not marry soon to please myself, I shall end by marrying to please someone else.  Do you follow me?”

“Make it plainer,” ordered Desire soberly.  “Make it absolutely plain.”

“I will.  My proposition is, in its truest and strictest sense, a marriage of convenience.  Marriage, it appears, can give us both what we want, a formal ceremony will legalize your position as my secretary and free you entirely from the interference of your father.  It will permit you to accept freely my protection and everything else which I have.  Your way will be open to the things you spoke of the other night, freedom, leisure, money, travel, books.  The only thing we are shutting out is the thing you say you have no use for—­love.  But perhaps you did not mean—­”

“I did.”

“Then, logically, my proposal is sound.”

“Am I to take all these things, and give nothing?”

“Not at all.  You give me the things I want most, freedom, security, the grace of companionship, and collaboration in my work, so long as your interest in it continues.  I will be a safely married man and you—­you will be a window-gazer no longer.  There is only one point"- -the speaker’s gaze turned from her and wandered out to sea—­“I can be sure of what I can bring into your life,” his voice was almost stern, “but I warn you to be very sure of what you will be shutting out.”

“You mean?”

“Children,” said Spence crisply.

“I do not care for children.”

The professor’s soberness vanished.  “Oh—­what a whopper!” he exclaimed.

“I mean, I do not want children of my own.”

“But supposing you were to develop a desire for them later on?”