Forget the difference between
our positions. Tomorrow I'm going to place a big order with
your house, if you treat me right. I'm dead stuck on you--and
that's a God's fact. You've taken me clean off my feet. I'm
thinking of doing a lot for you."
Susan was silent.
"What do you say to throwing up your job and coming to Chicago
with me? How much do you get?"
"Ten."
"Why, _you_ can't live on that."
"I've lived on less--much less."
"Do you like it?"
"Naturally not."
"You want to get on--don't you?"
"I must."
"You're down in the heart about something. Love?"
Susan was silent.
"Cut love out. Cut it out, my dear. That ain't the way to get
on. Love's a good consolation prize, if you ain't going to get
anywhere, and know you ain't. And it's a good first prize
after you've arrived and can afford the luxuries of life. But
for a man--or a woman--that's pushing up, it's sheer ruination!
Cut it out!"
"I am cutting it out," said Susan. "But that takes time."
"Not if you've got sense. The way to cut anything out is--cut
it out!--a quick slash--just cut. If you make a dozen little
slashes, each of them hurts as much as the one big slash--and
the dozen hurt twelve times as much--bleed twelve times as
much--put off the cure a lot more than twelve times as long."
He had Susan's attention for the first time.
"Do you know why women don't get on?"
"Tell me," said she.
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