dness in her
happiness and in her sweetness and her beauty. But the sadness was not
in her, it was in his own soul. Women like Maisie were made for men to
be faithful to them. And he had not been faithful to her. She was made
for love and he had not loved her. She was nothing to him. Looking at
her he was filled with pity for the beauty and sweetness that were
nothing to him. And in that pity and that sadness he felt for the first
time the uneasy stirring of his soul.

If only he could have broken the physical tie that had bound him to her
until now; if only they could give it all up and fall back on some
innocent, immaterial relationship that meant no unfaithfulness to Anne.

When he thought of Anne he didn't know for the life of him how he was
going through with it.

ii

Maisie had been talking to him for some seconds before he understood. At
last he saw that, for reasons which she was unable to make clear to him,
she was letting him off. He wouldn't have to go through with it.

As Jerrold's mind never foresaw anything he didn't want to see, so in
this matter of Maisie he had had no plan. Not that he trusted to the
inspiration of the moment; in its very nature the moment wouldn't have
an inspiration. He had simply refused to think about it at all. It was
too unpleasant. But Maisie's presence forced the problem on him with
some violence. He had given himself to Anne without a scruple, but when
it came to giving himself to Maisie his conscience developed a sudden
sense of guiltiness. For Jerrold was essentially faithful; only his
fidelity was all for Anne. His marrying Maisie had been a sin against
Anne, its sinfulness disguised because he had had no pleasure in it. The
thought of going back to Maisie after Anne revolted him; the thought of
Anne having to share him with Maisie revolted him. Nobody, he said to
himself, was ever less polygamous than he.

At the same time he was sorry for Maisie. He didn't want her to suffer,
and if she was not to suffer she must not know, and if she was not to
know they must go on as they had begun. He was haunted by the fear of
Maisie's knowing and suffering. The pity he felt for her was poignant
and accusing, as if somehow she did know and suffer. She must at least
be aware that something was wanting. He would have to make up to her
somehow for what she had missed; he would have to give her all the other
things she wanted for that one thing. Maisie's coldness might have made
it