"It's a pity, Tilly, that you find it so difficult to adapt yourself here. . . . Very well, we'll go to the Hague."
"But, if you're obstinate . . . and refuse to earn an income," she said, impetuously.
"We shall have enough."
"How much?"
He made a brief calculation:
"Say, five thousand guilders, no more."
"But I can't live on that . . . with two children."
"It ought to be enough, Tilly."
"But it's nonsense, trying to live at the Hague on five thousand guilders a year . . . with two children."
"Then what do you want?" he asked, bluntly.
"I want you to get a practice. . . . You have only to wish it: you would become the fashion at once."
He was silent.
"Why don't you answer?"
"Because we don't understand each other, Tilly," he said, sadly. "I can't give up the practice which I have in order to become a fashionable doctor."
"Why not, if it pays?"
"Because it conflicts with all . . . with everything inside me."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't."
"Then explain it to me."
"It can't be explained, Tilly. It can only be felt."
"So I have no feeling?"
"Not for that . . . no fellow-feeling . . . with me. . . ."
"Why did you marry me?" she asked, curtly.
"Because I love you."
