'You can't expect me to give you an impartial answer to that now--can you, dear?
I feel as if I wanted you to marry me on the chance you'd come to love me.

And you do care for me enough for this, don't you?
That in itself is such an incredible gift.' Yes, she evidently cared for him enough for this; and 'this' meant his arm about her, her hand in his, his eyes of devotion upon her, centre of his universe as she was.

And 'this' had, after years of formality, incredibly indeed altered all their relation.

But--to marry him--it meant all sorts of other things; it meant definitely giving up; it meant definitely taking on.

What it meant taking on was Franklin's raylessness, Franklin's obscurity, Franklin's dun-colour--could a wife escape the infection?
What it meant giving up was more vague, but it floated before her as the rose-coloured dream of her youth--the hero, the earnest, ardent hero, who was to light all life to rapture and significance.