"I was speaking only of myself. _I_ can't do it. And it's absurd for you and me to be talking about love and marriage when anyone can see I'd be marrying you only because I was afraid to face poverty and a struggle." Her manner calmed him somewhat. "Of course it's obvious that you've got to have money," said he, "and that the only way you can get it is by marriage. But there's something else, too, and in my opinion it's the principal thing--we care for each other. Why not be sensible, Mildred? Why not thank God that as long as you have to marry, you can marry someone you care for." "Could you feel that I cared for you, if I married you now?" inquired she. "Why not? I'm not so entirely lacking in self-esteem. I feel that I must count for something." Mildred sat silently wondering at this phenomenon so astounding, yet a commonplace of masculine egotism. She had no conception of this vanity which causes the man, at whom the street woman smiles, to feel flattered, though he knows full well what she is and her dire necessity. She could not doubt that he was speaking the truth, yet she could not believe that conceit could so befog common sense in a man who, for all his slowness and shallowness, was more than ordinarily shrewd. "Even if I thought I loved you," said she, "I couldn't be sure in these circumstances that I wasn't after your money." "Don't worry about that," replied he. "I understand you better than you understand yourself." "Let's stop talking about it," said she impatiently. "I want to explain to you the business side of this." She took her purse from the table. "Here are the papers." She handed him a check and a note. "I made them out at the bank this morning. The note is for what I owe you--and draws interest at four per cent. The check is for all the money I have left except about four hundred dollars. I've some bills I must pay, and also I didn't dare quite strip myself. The note may not be worth the paper it's written on, but I hope--" Before she could prevent him he took the two papers, and, holding them out of her reach, tore them to bits. Her eyes gleamed angrily. "I see you despise me--as much as I've invited. But, I'll make them out again and mail them to you." "You're a silly child," said he gruffly. "We're going to be married." She eyed him with amused exasperation. "It's too absurd!" she cried. "And if I yielded, you'd be trying to get out of it." She hesitated whether to tell him frankly just how she felt toward him. She decided against it, not through consideration--for a woman feels no consideration for a man she does not love, if he has irritated her--but through being ashamed to say harsh things to one whom she owed so much. "It's useless for you to pretend and to plead," she went on. "I shall not yield. You'll have to wait until I'm free and independent." "You'll marry me then?" "No," replied she, laughing. "But I'll be able to refuse you in such a way that you'll believe."