"That's not true, Joan," he protested. "You're the only woman I've ever cared for. I want you in my life, in my home; I want your companionship, your help in my work." "In your work?" she asked in genuine surprise. "Yes, in my work, why not? Wouldn't it interest you to help me in the laboratory, sometimes? I'm rather keen on certain experiments, you know, Joan, and if you'll only come, we could work together. Oh, it would all be so utterly splendid! Just what I planned for us years ago. Don't you think you can marry me, Joan?" She laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "Listen," she said gently, "while I try to make you understand. The woman you're thinking of is not Joan Ogden at all; she's a purely fictitious person, conceived in your own brain. Joan Ogden is forty-three, and old for her age; she's old in body, her skin is old, and she'll soon be white-haired. Her mind has been shrivelling away for years; it's not able to grasp big things as it was once; it's grown small and petty and easily tired. Give it a piece of serious work and it flags immediately, there's no spring left in it. "Her body's a mass of small ailments; real or imaginary, they count just the same. She goes to bed feeling tired out and gets up feeling more tired, so that every little futile thing is enough to make her irritable. She exaggerates small worries and makes mountains out of molehills. Her nerves are unreliable and she dwells too much on her health. If she remembers what she used to be like, she tries to forget it, because she's afraid; long ago she was a coward and she's remained one to this day, only now she's a tamer coward and gives in without a struggle. "It's different with you, Richard, you've got a right to marry. You want to marry, because you're successful and because at your age a man settles down. But haven't you thought that you probably want children, a son? Do you think the woman I've described would be a desirable mother, even if she could have a child at all? Would you choose to make posterity through an old, unhealthy body; to give children to the world by a woman who is utterly unfit to bear them, who never has loved you and never could?" He covered his face with his hands. "Don't, I can't bear it, Joan!" "But it's the truth and you know it," she went on quietly. "I'm past your saving, Richard; there's nothing left to save." "Oh, Joan!" he said desperately. "It can't be as bad as that! Give me a chance; if anyone can save you, I can." She turned her face away from him. "No!" she said. "Only one creature could ever have saved me and I let her go while I was still young." "Do you mean Elizabeth?" he asked sharply. She nodded. "Yes, she could have saved me, but I let her go."