knew that there was nothing
else to do. And he would know it too.

A day later a long letter came from Paul. It was very characteristic.
It began by saying that of course Maggie must return at once.
Throughout, the voice was that of a grieved and angry elder talking to
a wicked and disobedient child. She saw that, far beyond everything
else, it was his pride that was wounded, wounded as it had never been
before. He could see nothing but that. Did she realise, he asked her,
what she was doing? Sinning against all the laws of God and man. If she
persisted in her wickedness she would be cut off from all decent
people. No one could say that he had not shown her every indulgence,
every kindness, every affection. Even now he was ready to forgive her,
but she must come back at once, at once. Her extreme youth excused
much, and both he and Grace realised it.

Through it all the strain--did she not see what she was doing? How
could she behave so wickedly when she had been given so many blessings,
when she had been shown the happiness of a Christian home? ...

It was not a letter to soften Maggie's resolve. She wrote a short reply
saying that she could not come. She thought then that he would run up
to London to fetch her. But he did not. He wrote once more, and then,
for a time, there was silence.

She had little interval in which to think about Paul; Martin soon
compelled her attention. He was well enough now to be up. He would lie
all day, without moving except to take his meals, on the old red sofa,
stretched out there, his arms behind his head, looking at Maggie with a
strange taunting malicious stare as though he were defying her to stand
up to him. She did stand up to him, although it needed all her
strength, moral and physical. He was attacking her soul and she was
saving his ...

He said no more about his going away. He accepted it as a fact that she
was there and that she would stay there. He had changed his position
and was fighting her on another ground.

Maggie had once, years before, read in a magazine, a story about a
traveller and a deserted house. This traveller, lost, as are all
travellers in stories, in a forest, benighted and hungry, saw the
lights of a house.

He goes forward and finds a magnificent mansion, blazing with light in
every window, but apparently deserted. He enters and finds room after
room prepared for guests. A fine meal is laid ready and he enjoys it.
He discovers the softest of beds