"But dear, suppose it was somewhere very grimy and narrow! Something--like some of those back streets I came through to get here. Suppose it was some dreadful place. And you had no money. And we were both worried and miserable. One gets ill in such places. If I loved you, Stephen--I mean if you and I--if you and I were to be together, I should want it to be in sunshine, I should want it to be among beautiful forests and mountains. Somewhere very beautiful...." "Why not?" "Because--to-day I know. There are no such places in the world for us. Stephen, they are dreams." "For three years now," I said, "I have dreamed such dreams. "Oh!" I cried out, stung by my own words, "but this is cowardice! Why should we submit to this old world! Why should we give up--things you have dreamed as well as I! You said once--to hear my voice--calling in the morning.... Let us take each other, Mary, now. _Now!_ Let us take each other, and"--I still remember my impotent phrase--"afterwards count the cost!" "If I were a queen," said Mary. "But you see I am not a queen." ... So we talked in fragments and snatches of argument, and all she said made me see more clearly the large hopelessness of my desire. "At least," I urged, "do not marry Justin now. Give me a chance. Give me three years, Mary, three short years, to work, to do something!" She knew so clearly now the quality of her own intentions. "Dear Stephen," she explained, "if I were to come away with you and marry you, in just a little time I should cease to be your lover, I should be your squaw. I should have to share your worries and make your coffee--and disappoint you, disappoint you and fail you in a hundred ways. Think! Should I be any good as a squaw? How can one love when one knows the coffee isn't what it should be, and one is giving one's lover indigestion? And I don't _want_ to be your squaw. I don't want that at all. It isn't how I feel for you. I don't _want_ to be your servant and your possession." "But you will be Justin's--squaw, you are going to marry him!" "That is all different, Stevenage. Between him and me there will be space, air, dignity, endless servants----" "But," I choked. "You! He! He will make love to you, Mary." "You don't understand, Stephen." "He will make love to you, Mary. Mary! don't you understand? These things---- We've never talked of them.... You will bear him children!" "No," she said. "But----" "No. He promises. Stephen,--I am to own myself." "But--He marries you!" "Yes. Because he--he admires me. He cannot live without me. He loves my company. He loves to be seen with me. He wants me with him to enjoy all the things he has. Can't you understand, Stephen?" "But do you mean----?" Our eyes met. "Stephen," she said, "I swear." "But---- He hopes." "I don't care. He has promised. I have his promise. I shall be free. Oh! I shall be free--free! He is a different man from you, Stephen. He isn't so fierce; he isn't so greedy." "But it parts us!"