-respect. Here am I always bundling
about--first the aunts, then you, then Paul, then you again, and nobody
wanting me. I don't suppose," she said laughing, "that there can be
anybody less wanted in the world. So I'm just going to look after
myself now. It's quite time I did."

"But I want you," he said, his voice still very low. She looked up, her
eyes lit as though with some sudden recognition.

"If you really mean that," she said, "say it again. If you don't mean
it, don't humbug me. I won't be humbugged any more."

"I haven't humbugged you--ever," he answered. "You're the only person
I've always been absolutely straight with. I've always, from the very
beginning, told you to have nothing to do with me. It's more true than
ever now. I've been trying ever since you came back to me in London to
get you to leave me. But it's too late. I can't fight it any more ... I
loved you all the time I was abroad. I oughtn't to have written to you,
but I did. I came back to London with the one hope of seeing you, but
determined not to."

"I loved you more than ever when you came into my lodging there, but I
was sick and hadn't any money, besides all my other failings ... It's
the only decent thing I've ever really tried to do, to keep you away
from me, and now I've failed in that. When I came in and found you were
gone this afternoon I thought I'd go crazy."

"I'm not going to struggle any more. If you go away I'll follow you
wherever you go. I may as well try to give up keeping you out of it.
It's like keeping myself out of it."

Slowly she took her hat and coat off again.

"Well, then," she said, "I'd better stay, I suppose."

He suddenly sat down, his face white. She came across to him.

She put her hand on his forehead.

"You'd better go to bed, Martin, dear. I'll bring your tea in."

He caught her hand. She knelt down, put her arms round him, and so they
stayed, cheek to cheek, for a long time.

When he had gone to his room she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, her
hands idly folded on her lap. She let happiness pour in upon her as
water floods in upon a dried and sultry river-bed. She was passive, her
tranquillity was rich and full, too full for any outward expression.

She was so happy that her heart was weighted down and seemed scarcely
to beat. It was not, perhaps, the exultant happiness that she had
expected this moment to bring her.

When, in after days, she looked back to that quiet half-hour by the
fir