She recalled what she had told him, that he must no longer be passive but must act. Did not this counsel apply to herself? She knew she wanted him. She knew he wanted her. But however great his want of her he could not and would not call upon her to make what might be the sacrifice of a life--her life--to save his own. How could he, a man nearing middle age, really nameless, a child of disgrace and the son and heir of evil, lonely, sensitive, not unliked, but virtually friendless--how could he ask her to become his wife? He could ask of her nothing that she did not freely and of her own impulse offer and give him--friendship, sympathy, help, advice. The last item had an ironical ring in Mermaid’s consciousness. Advice to the drowning! If he had the strength to save himself he had that strength, and that was all there was to it. For what was she waiting? To see him exercise it? But she loved him. It was not proof of his strength she required. What he had, what he lacked, was nothing--simply nothing. If he hadn’t it, she had strength enough for two. Suppose she failed? Suppose she knew she would fail? The old image persisted before her. If he were drowning and she knew that her effort to save him would not succeed, would she abandon him, just stand there watching, or await what would happen with averted eyes? Of course not. You had to make the effort no matter if it was absolutely foredoomed to failure. And this effort which confronted her was not necessarily foredoomed at all; at least, so far as she or any one else could see. They might shake their heads but they could not tell. In her way, the best way she could manage, she put this to her aunt, who listened almost silently until the end and then said, suddenly and abruptly: “Of course, Mary, if you love him--why, that settles everything.” Mermaid felt bound to insist on the logic leading to this conclusion. “Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Hand, irritably. “You can’t reason about such a thing. When two persons love each other it settles everything--and unsettles everything, too,” she added. “There’s only one thing to do, and there’s only one person to do it.” “There’s really no reason why a woman shouldn’t propose to a man,” continued Keturah. “I’m no great respecter of conventions. You may remember the time when I used to wear a man’s old coat. Conventions were made for the man and not man for the conventions, except political conventions.” She was resorting, as was not unusual with her, to flippancy to cover emotion. “I don’t know but that I may be said to have proposed to your Uncle Hosea, when I got money that was rightfully his from his brother and put it in his hands, indirectly, as a lover sends a box of flowers to his sweetheart. Only I couldn’t have the florist, Lawyer Brown, put my card in the box,” she noted. “However, it wasn’t necessary; it seldom is. You always know who sent the flowers.