“I mean just that. In all this Dorothy will rapidly change--at least in her points of view. Her conceptions of life will undergo something like a revolution. At the end of it all she may not care for any such life as you can offer her, especially as she will meet many brilliant men under circumstances calculated to make the most of their attractions. She may transfer her love for you, which is at present a thing quite unconsciously felt, to some one who shall ask for it. For I suppose you will say nothing to her now that might make her conscious of her state of mind and put her under bonds to you?” “Quite certainly, no! My tongue shall be dumb and even my actions and looks shall be kept in leash till she is gone. Can’t you understand, Edmonia--” “I understand better than you think, and I honor you for your courage and your unselfishness. You want this thing done in order that Dorothy may have the fullest possible chance in life and in love--in order that if there be in this world a higher happiness for her than any that you can offer, she may have it?” “That is precisely my thought, Edmonia. You have expressed it far better than I could have done. I don’t want to take an unfair advantage of Dorothy, as I suppose I easily might. I don’t want her to accept my love and agree to share my life, in ignorance of what better men and better things there may be for her elsewhere. If I am ever to make her my own, it must be after she knows enough to choose intelligently. Should she choose some other life than that which I can offer, some other love than mine, she must never know the blight that her choice cannot fail to inflict upon me. As for myself, I have my crucibles and my work, and I should be better content, knowing that she was happy in some life of her own choosing, than knowing that I had made her mine by taking unfair advantage of her inexperience.” “Arthur Brent,” said Edmonia, rising, not to dismiss him, but for the sake of giving emphasis to her utterance, “you are--well, let me say it all in a single phrase--you are _worthy of Dorothy South_. You are such a man as women of the higher sort dream of, but rarely meet. It is not quite convenient for me to undertake this mission for you just now, but convenience must courtesy to my will. I’ll arrange the matter with Dorothy at once and we’ll be off in a fortnight or less. Fortunately no dressmaking need detain us, for we must have our first important gowns made in Richmond and Baltimore, a larger supply in New York, and then Paris will take care of its own. I’ll have some trouble with Aunt Polly, of course; she regards travel very much as she does manslaughter, but you may safely leave her to me.” “But, Edmonia, you said this thing would subject you to some inconvenience?”