She did not help him out. "I can't make up my mind about this work." "Is it the question of time? I thought we had made that clear? You didn't undertake to finish by the twenty-seventh." "The question is whether I should have undertaken it at all." "It might have been as well to have answered that question first." "I couldn't answer it. There were so many things--" "Do you want a longer time in town?" "I want a longer time here, to think it over, to make up my mind whether I can go on--" "And in the meanwhile?" "The work goes on just the same." "And if you decide that you can't continue it?" "I should find a substitute." "The substitute might not be just the same. For instance, he might not have so scrupulous a conscience." "You mean he might not be so eager to back out of his engagements." "I mean what I said. Your position seems to be a little difficult." "I wish to goodness, Miss Harden, I could explain it." "I don't suggest that you should explain it. It doesn't seem to be so very clear to yourself." "It isn't. I really _don't_ know what I ought to do." "No more do I. But I can tell you what you ought to have done. You ought to have made up your mind last night." "Well, the fact is--last night--I hadn't very much mind left to make up." "No, I remember. You _were_ rather done up. I don't want to bind you by last night, if it's at all unfair to you." "It isn't in the least unfair to me. But I'm not sure that it mightn't be very unfair to you; and, you see, I want to think it out." "Very well, think it out, and let me know some time to-night. Will that satisfy you?" "It ought to." And for the moment it did satisfy him. He felt that conscience, that stern guardian of his conduct, was off duty for the day. He was free (for the day) to abandon himself to the charm of Miss Harden's society. The experience, he told himself, would be altogether new and delightful.