And he had arrived at a compromise.
He would marry a girl out West somewhere, a girl of some small
town, brought up somewhat as he had been brought up, not shocked
by what Margaret Severance would regard as his vulgarities--a
woman with whom he felt equal and at ease. He would select such a
woman, provided, in addition, with some fortune--several hundred
thousands, at least, enough to make him independent. Such had been
his plan. But now that he had seen Margaret, had come to
appreciate her through studying her as a possible wife for his
unattached friend Arkwright, now that he had discovered her
secret, her love for him--how could he fit her into his career?
Was it possible? Was it wise?
"The best is none too good for me," said he to himself
swaggeringly. No doubt about it--no, indeed, not the slightest.
But--well, everybody wouldn't realize this, as yet. And it must be
admitted that those mere foppish, inane nothings did produce a
seeming of difference. Indeed, it must even be admitted that the
way Margaret had been brought up would make it hard for her, with
her sensitive, delicate nerves, to bear with him if she really
knew him. A hot wave passed over his body at the thought.
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