her."

"You would owe it to her," said Maria Dolores, always facing away, "to
tell her your love straightforwardly, and to ask her to marry you."

John thrilled, John ached. His blue eyes burned upon her. "What else do
you think I dream of, night and day? But how could I, with honour? You
know my poverty," he groaned.

"But if she has enough, more than enough, for two?" softly urged Maria
Dolores.

"Ah, that's the worst of it," cried he. "If we were equals in penury, if
she had nothing, then I might honourably ask her, and we could live on
herbs together in a garret, and I could keep her respect and my own. Oh,
garret-paradise! But to marry a woman who is rich, to live in luxury
with her, and to try to look unconscious while she pays the bills,--she
would despise me, I should abhor myself."

"Why should she despise you?" asked Maria Dolores. "The possession of
wealth is a mere accident. If people are married and love each other, I
can't see that it matters an atom whether their money belonged in the
first place to the man or to the woman,--it would belong henceforward to
them both equally."

"That is a very generous way of looking at it, but it is a woman's way.
No decent man could accept it," said John.

"Up to a certain point," said Maria Dolores, slowly, "I understand your
scruples. I understand that a poor man might feel that he would not like