“I have not found Mr. Erskine such a wonderful person as you seem to think him.”

“He is only a man.  Do you know anybody more wonderful?”

“Besides, my family might not approve.”

“They most certainly will not.  If you wish to please them, you must sell yourself to some rich vampire of the factories or great landlord.  If you give yourself away to a poor poet who loves you, their disgust will be unbounded.  If a woman wishes to honor her father and mother to their own satisfaction nowadays she must dishonor herself.”

“I do not understand why you should be so anxious for me to marry someone else?”

“Someone else?” said Trefusis, puzzled.

“I do not mean someone else,” said Gertrude hastily, reddening.  “Why should I marry at all?”

“Why do any of us marry?  Why do I marry?  It is a function craving fulfilment.  If you do not marry betimes from choice, you will be driven to do so later on by the importunity of your suitors and of your family, and by weariness of the suspense that precedes a definite settlement of oneself.  Marry generously.  Do not throw yourself away or sell yourself; give yourself away.  Erskine has as much at stake as you; and yet he offers himself fearlessly.”

Gertrude raised her head proudly.

“It is true,” continued Trefusis, observing the gesture with some anger, “that he thinks more highly of you than you deserve; but you, on the other hand, think too lowly of him.  When you marry him you must save him from a cruel disenchantment by raising yourself to the level he fancies you have attained.  This will cost you an effort, and the effort will do you good, whether it fail or succeed.  As for him, he will find his just level in your estimation if your thoughts reach high enough to comprehend him at that level.”

Gertrude moved impatiently.

“What!” he said quickly.  “Are my long-winded sacrifices to the god of reason distasteful?  I believe I am involuntarily making them so because I am jealous of the fellow after all.  Nevertheless I am serious; I want you to get married; though I shall always have a secret grudge against the man who marries you.  Agatha will suspect me of treason if you don’t.  Erskine will be a disappointed man if you don’t.  You will be moody, wretched, and—­and unmarried if you don’t.”

Gertrude’s cheeks flushed at the word jealous, and again at his mention of Agatha.  “And if I do,” she said bitterly, “what then?”

“If you do, Agatha’s mind will be at ease, Erskine will be happy, and you!  You will have sacrificed yourself, and will have the happiness which follows that when it is worthily done.”

“It is you who have sacrificed me,” she said, casting away her reticence, and looking at him for the first time during the conversation.