she
doesn't get better."

"I don't think so. If she knew she'd have said something or done
something."

"She mightn't. She mightn't do anything. Perhaps she's just being
angelically good to us."

"She _is_ angelically good. But she doesn't know. You forget her illness
began before there _was_ anything to know. It isn't the sort of thing
she'd think of. If somebody told her she wouldn't believe it. She trusts
us absolutely.... That's bad enough, Anne, without her knowing."

"Yes. It's bad enough. It's worse, really."

"I know it is.... Anne--I'm awfully sorry to have let you in for all
this misery."

"You mustn't be sorry. You haven't let me in for it. Nobody could have
known it would have happened. It wouldn't, if Maisie had been different.
We wouldn't have bothered then. Nothing would have mattered. Think how
gloriously happy we were. All my life all my happiness has come through
you or because of you. We'd be happy still if it wasn't for Maisie."

"I don't see how we're to go on like this. I can't stand it when you're
not happy. And nothing makes any difference, really. I want you so
awfully all the time."

"That's one of the things we mustn't say to each other."

"I know we mustn't. Only I didn't want you to think I didn't."

"I don't think it. I know you'll care for me as long as you live. Only
you mustn't say so. You mustn't be sorry for me. It makes me feel all
weak and soft when I want to be strong and hard."

"You _are_ strong, Anne."

"So are you. I shouldn't love you if you weren't. But we mustn't make it
too hard for each other. You know what'll happen if we do?"

"What? You mean we'd crumple up and give in?"

"No. But we couldn't ever see each other alone again. Never see each
other again at all, perhaps. I'd have to go away."

"You shan't have to. I swear I won't say another word."

"Sometimes I think it would be easier for you if I went."

"It wouldn't. It would be simply damnable. You can't go, Anne. That
_would_ make Maisie think."

iii

After weeks of rest Maisie passed into a period of painless
tranquillity. She had no longer any fear of her illness because she had
no longer any fear of Jerrold's knowing about it. He did know, and yet
her world stood firm round her, firmer than when he had not known. For
she had now in Jerrold's ceaseless devotion what seemed to her the
absolute proof that he cared for her, if she had ever doubted it. And if
he had doubted her, hadn't he the