“Be reasonable, Mr. Foote. ...  You’re rich.  Some day you’ll be the head of a great business—­with thousands of men working for you. ...  I belong with them.  You must be against them. ...  I couldn’t bear it.  You know all about me.  I’ve been brought up to believe the things I believe.  My father and grandfather and his grandfather worked and suffered for them. ...  Just as your ancestors have worked and planned for the things you represent. ...  It wouldn’t ever do.  We couldn’t be happy.  Even if I—­cared—­and did as you ask—­it wouldn’t last.”

“It would last,” he said.  “I know.  I’ve been trying to tell you, to make you believe that you have crowded everything else out of my life.  There’s just you in it. ...  It would last—­and every day and every year it would grow—­more wonderful.”

“There must be agreement and sympathy between a husband and his wife, Mr. Foote. ...  Oh, I know.  In the bigger things.  And there we could never agree.  It would make trouble—­trouble that couldn’t be avoided nor dodged.  It would be there with us every minute—­and we’d know it.  You’d know I hated the things you stand for and the things you have to do. ...  No man could bear that—­to have his wife constantly reproaching him.”

“I think,” he said, “that your word would be my law. ...”

She sat silent, startled.  Unasked, unsought, a thought had entered her mind; a terrifying thought, but a big and vital thought.  Her word would be his law.  Her influence would be upon him. ...  And he was master of thousands of her class.  He would be master of more thousands. ...  If she were his wife—­if her word might become his law—­how would those laboring men be affected?  Would her word be his law with respect to them? ...

She did not love him, but she did love the Cause she represented, that her promised husband, Dulac, represented. ...  Her father had given his life for it.  She had given nothing.  Now she could give—­ herself. ...  She could sacrifice herself, she could pass by her love—­ but would it avail anything? ...  This boy loved her, loved her with all his strength and honesty.  He would continue to love her.  She believed that. ...  If, not loving him, she should marry him, she would be able to hold his love—­and her word would be in some sort his law.  She could influence him—­not abruptly, not suddenly, but gradually, cleverly, cunningly.  She could use him for her great purpose.  Thousands of men might be happier, safer from hunger and misery, closer to a realization of their hope, if she gave herself to this boy. ...  She was filled with exaltation—­a Joan of Arc listening to her Voices. ...

It was possible—­possible. ...  And if it were possible, if she could accomplish this great thing for the Cause, dared she avoid it?  Was it not a holy duty?

Remember her parentage, her training; remember that she had drawn into her being enthusiasm, fanaticism with the air she breathed in the very cradle.  She was a revolutionist. ...  Greater crimes than loveless marriages have been committed in the name of Enthusiasm for a Cause.