“Why not?” he asked, suddenly growing sober.  “I love you.  That is enough to make any man happy, isn’t it?  You needn’t love me, but you can’t prevent my going on loving you.”

“Well, I am very sorry,” she sighed in much perplexity.

“You needn’t be,” he answered, reassuringly.  “I’m more sorry for you than I am for myself.  You are going to have a terrible time until you marry me.”

They were at Thebes, and he went off that afternoon to the Temple of Luxor with her mother, and made violent use of the sacred altars, the beauty of Cleopatra, the eternity of the scarabea, and the indestructibility of the Pyramids to suggest faintly to Mrs. Warriner how much he loved her daughter.  He shook his hand at the crouching sphinxes and said: 

“Mrs. Warriner, in forty centuries they have never looked down upon a man as proud as I am, and I am told they have seen Napoleon; but I need help; she won’t help me, so you must.  It’s no use arguing against me.  When this Nile dries up I shall have ceased loving your daughter!”

“Did you tell Helen what you have told me?  Did you talk to her so?” asked Mrs. Warriner.

“No, not last night,” said Corbin; “but I will, in time, after she gets more used to the Idea.”

Unfortunately for the peace of Mr. Corbin and all concerned.  Miss Warriner did not become reconciled to the idea.  On the contrary, she resented it greatly.  She had looked at the possibility of something to be carried out later—­much later, perhaps not at all.  It did not seem possible that before she had really begun to enjoy life it should be subjected to such a change.  She saw that it was obviously the thing that should happen.  If the match had been arranged by the entire city of Boston it could not have been more obvious.  But she argued with him that marriage was a mutual self-sacrifice, and that until she felt ready to make her share of the sacrifice it was impossible for her to consent.

He combated her arguments, which he refused to consider as arguments, and demolished them one by one.  But the objection which he destroyed before he went to sleep at night was replaced the next day by another, and his cause never advanced.  Each day he found the citadel he was besieging girt in by new and intricate defences.  The reason was simple enough:  the girl was not in love with him.  Her objections, her arguments, her reasons were as absurd as he proved them to be.  But they were insurmountable because they were really various disguises of the fact that she did not care for him.  They were disguises to herself as well as to him.  He was so altogether a good fellow, so earnest, honest, and desperate a lover that the primary fact that she did not want his love did not present itself, and she kept casting about in her mind for excuses and reasons to explain her lack of feeling.  He wooed her in every obvious way that would present itself to a boy of deep feeling, of quick mind, and an unlimited letter of credit.