"I can't go on in this uncertainty. I am beginning to think I am a blundering fellow--where women are concerned. When we were together as children, I seem to remember, looking back, that I always did the wrong thing. And later--when you came out and I fancied myself a man of the world, it was the same. I don't know exactly what a girl is at eighteen, but I know that a fellow of twenty-five is an ass. He is probably well-meaning: he isn't hardened by ambition and he is pretty sentimental, as a rule. Yet he doesn't have fixed ideas. One day it dawned upon me that I was in love." "Now don't say that." "I repeat it. I am far from wishing to pose as a martyr, but whenever one is happy, all one's friends think that one is going to make some fatal mistake. I suppose no battle can be won without a battle. But life has always had a good deal of painfulness to me, and I hate opposition. It isn't lack of courage on my part--I can fight an enemy to the death. When it comes to quarrelling with relatives or those I care about--well, I own I can seldom see good reasons for keeping a stiff neck." "I am perfectly convinced of your spirit, Beauclerk; every circumstance serves to show it. There was never a time when you did the wrong thing--in my judgment." "You are generous, but I dare not believe you there. Much that I did and all that I left unsaid must have puzzled you. I wouldn't speak now, Sara, if I didn't feel sure that in spite of my faults, my stupidity, my want of self-knowledge, you saw that I was destined to love you." It was impossible to deny this fact. She had been well aware always of his affection, and the certainty had given a peculiar emotional value to every scene--no matter how commonplace--to every occasion, no matter how crowded, to every conversation, no matter how trivial--in which he figured or his name transpired. He and poor Marshire were the two men in the world who really loved her. Marshire was the more desperate because he was less intelligent and had fewer interests; Reckage loved her with all the force of a selfish, vain, and spoilt nature. Such a passion she knew was not especially noble and certainly not ideal. But it was strong, and it made him submissive. "Sara," he said, "you have got to help me." He put his arm round her waist, and as she inclined her face ever so slightly toward his, he kissed her cheek. "How can I help you?" she asked. "Let us marry." "I don't wish to marry any one just yet, Beauclerk," she said; "I like my liberty. I don't feel that I should make either a good wife, or a contented one, as I am now. I want to see more and think more before I give up my will to another." "I would not ask you to give up your will." "We should be utterly miserable if I didn't."