said that he didn't love her as he had loved other
women. She had never the courage to ask him this. She wondered
sometimes why it had hurt her when he had said he loved her as though
she were a man friend, without any question of sex. "Surely that's
enough for me," she would ask herself, "it means that it's much more
lasting and safe." And yet it was not enough.

Nevertheless, during these weeks she found his brotherly care of her
adorable, he found her shyness divine.

"Every other woman I have ever been in love with," he told her once, "I
have always kept asking them would they ever change, and would they
love me always, and all that kind of nonsense. A man always begins like
that, and then the time comes when he wishes to God they would change,
and they won't. But you're not like that, Maggie, I know you'll never
change, and I know that I shall never want you to." "No, I shall never
change," said Maggie.

At the very beginning of the three weeks a little incident occurred
that was trivial enough at the time, but appeared afterwards as
something significant and full of meaning. This incident was a little
talk with poor Mr. Magnus. Maggie always thought of him as "poor Mr.
Magnus." He seemed so feckless and unsettled, and then he wrote novels
that nobody wanted to buy. He always talked like a book, and that was
perhaps one reason why Maggie had avoided him during these last months.
Another reason had been that she really could not be sure how far he
was in the general conspiracy to drive her into the Chapel. He would
not do that of his own will she was sure, but being in love with Aunt
Anne he might think it his sacred duty, and Maggie was terrified of
"sacred duties." Therefore when, three days after that great evening in
the park, he caught her alone in the drawing-room, her first impulse
was to run away; then she looked at him and found that her love for the
world in general embraced him too "if only he won't talk like a book,"
she thought to herself.

He looked more wandering than ever with his high white collar, his
large spectacles, and his thin, dusty hair; the fire of some hidden,
vital spirit burnt beneath those glasses, and his face was so kindly
that she felt ashamed of herself for having avoided him so often.

"Both the aunts are at Miss Avies'." she said.

"Oh," he said, looking at her rather blankly.

"Perhaps I'll come another time," and he turned towards the door.

"No," she cried. "You won't-