for, I asked
this artist, so urban, so native to the studio, so closely knit to her
joyous companions in the city, to go with me into exile, into a country
town, to be the housekeeper of a commonplace cottage filled with aged
people! "It is monstrous selfishness; it is wrong," I said, "but I want
you."

My philosophy, even at that time, was essentially individualistic. I
believed in the largest opportunity to every human soul. Equal rights
_meant_ Equal rights in my creed. I had no intention of asking Zulime
Taft to sink her individuality in mine. I wanted her to remain herself.
Marriage, as I contemplated it, was to be not a condition where the
woman was a subordinate but an equal partner, and yet how unequal the
sacrifice! "I ask you to join your future with mine. It's a frightful
risk, but I am selfish enough to wish it."

Under no illusion about my own character, I admitted that there is no
special charm in a just man. To have a sense of honor is fine, but to
have a joyous and lovely disposition makes a man a great deal easier to
live with. I was perfectly well aware that as a husband I would prove
neither lovely nor joyous. My temper was not habitually cheerful. Like
most writers, I was self-absorbed, filled with a sense of the importance
of my literary designs. To be "just" was easy, but to be charming and
considerate--these were the points on which I was sure to fail, and I
knew it. Did that deter me? Not at all! Bitterly unwilling to surrender
Zulime to the richer and kindlier man who was, undoubtedly, waiting at
that moment to receive her and cherish her, I pleaded with her to share
my poverty and my hope of future fame.

Shaken by my appeal, she asked for time in which to consider this
problem. "I ought to talk with Lorado," she said.

The mere fact that she could not decide against me at the moment gave me
confidence. "Very well," I said. "Mother wants me--I shall go home for
a week. Let me know when I can come again. I hope it will not be more
than a week."

In this arrangement we rested, and as we walked back to camp I cared
nothing for the sly words or glances of our fellow artists. I believed I
had won my case.

My mother's demand for my presence did not arise--I soon learned--from
any return of her malady, but from a desire for news of my courtship.
"Where's my new daughter? Why didn't you bring her?" she demanded.

"She couldn't come this time. The question is still unsettled."

"Go right back