It came to him what she was talking about—and it overwhelmed him with confusion. "Yes—certainly. I—I supposed you’d forgotten."
She gazed at him in dismay. "Forgotten!" Then she brightened. "Oh, you’re teasing me."
He began to be irritated. "You mustn’t fret me about that," he said.
"I didn’t even mean to speak of it," she protested, her supersensitive dread of intrusion alert. "I know you’re doing the best you can. But I couldn’t help dreaming of the time when I’ll have you back again.... Now, don’t look so distressed! Meanwhile, we’ll have what we can. And that’s something—isn’t it?"
What queer, irrational creatures women were! To persist in a foolish, fanciful notion such as this! Why couldn’t she play at keeping house and enjoy herself as it was intended women should? A woman’s trying to do anything serious, a woman’s thinking—it was like a parrot’s talking—an imitation, and not a good one. But the "whim" and his "harmless deception" became the same sort of irritation in his conscience that a grain of dust is on the eyeball. He was forced to debate whether he should not make a slight concession. After all, where would be the harm in letting her come to the laboratory? She’d soon get enough. Yes, that would be the wise course. Humor a woman or a child in an innocent folly, and you effect a cure. Yes—if she brought the matter up again, and no other way out suggested, he would let her come. It amused him to think of her, delicate as a flower, made for the hothouse, for protection and guidance and the most careful sheltering, trying to adapt herself to serious work calling for thought and concentration. "But she’d be a nuisance after a day or so. A man’s sense of humor—even his love—soon wears thin when his work’s interfered with." Still, she’d be glad enough to quit, probably after a single morning of the kind of thing he’d give her to discourage her. "Really, all a woman wants is the feeling she’s having her own way."
This decision laid the ghost. As she said no more, the whole thing passed to the dark recesses of his memory. One evening in late September, when he was taking a walk alone on the veranda, she came out and joined him. After a few silent turns she said, "Let’s sit on the steps." She made him sit a step lower than she, which brought their eyes upon a level. The moon was shining full upon them. The expression of her face, as she looked intently at him, was such that he instinctively said, "What is it, dear?" and reached for her hand.