“That—is what helped me to see! I don’t think—I ever was really in love with you. It was infatuation—blind infatuation—or else—how could I have done—what I did just now! I haven’t missed you—except when I was idle; and when girls are idle they always have to be in love, or missing someone, or moping because they haven’t got anybody to miss—that’s the way girls seem to be made!” “You only missed me—when you were idle,” he repeated as if it were the statement of a theorem he could not prove. “Yes, and then I missed only _you_! I didn’t miss your spirit, your soul to mingle with my own—and so you see, I didn’t have the real, true longing for you!” “Then you _did_ long for me!” He had left his seat and come to her; but she held up wavering hands. “Passion—dressed up! I wonder how many people know it from love—before it is too late!” “Joy, you’re morbid. It doesn’t do to analyze things so. You’ve been brooding here all evening over your old music; no wonder you see in such a light. When you marry me, everything will straighten out, and you won’t get yourself all wrought up over the piano all the time.” “I see what you mean—and that’s another thing. If I married you now, I would have to give up my music.” “Oh, not entirely, of course. You would always have it as a lovely gift, to take up now and then—but not as a god to slave before and give everything to——I’ve watched you, Joy, and that’s the way you are. I wouldn’t respect a man much, who let his wife peg on at the thing in a professional way, when he could take care of her himself.” Joy laughed, almost stonily. “Apart from the fact that I don’t love you—I’m not ready to marry _anyone_ yet. Since I’ve last—seen you, I’ve made my decision. And I’m only standing on the threshold of my work! And I never—never could be happy to give it up now—even if I was in love——A girl waits for the man she loves to establish himself in his line of work, waits until he has gotten to the place where her partnership is possible. But judging by you, a man wouldn’t wait for me—wouldn’t wait until I got my head above water, and then let me carry on my work after marriage, as he carries on his.” “Women who advance such arguments are liable to forget that their business after marriage should be quite different from before,” he said in a low tone. She looked at him with unembarrassed eyes. “Supposing I recognised that. Supposing I said, I will be Domesticity itself after I am married. But I still require you to wait several years for me—as I must attain the perfection for which I am aiming, or my soul will always yearn after it, and I will never be content? What then?” He did not speak. She turned and played a few chords on the piano. “I’m nineteen years old—nearly twenty. Say you wait three years and a half for me—until I’m twenty-three. Would you do that?” “Joy, you’re talking perfect rot. To wait over three years—to waste the best years of our life we might be having together——”