friend, William Magnus" aloud
solemnly twice. Her thoughts ran in leaps and runs, hurdle-race-wise
across the flat level of her brain. Martin. Old. Ill. Paris. Those
walls out there and the road-man with a spade--little boy walking with
him--chattering--it's going to be hot. The light across the lawn is
almost blue and the beds are dry. His room. The looking-glass. Always
tilts back when one tries to see one's hair. Meant to speak about it.
Martin. Ill. Paris. Paris. Trains. Boats. How quickly could one be
there? No time at all. Paris. Never been to Paris. Perhaps he isn't
there now ...

At that definite picture she controlled her mind again. She pulled it
up as a driver drags back a restive horse. Her first real thought was:
"How hard that this letter should have come now when I was just going
to put everything right with Paul." Her next: "Poor Paul! But I don't
care for him a bit ... I don't care for any one but Martin. I never
did." Her next: "Why did I ever think I did?" And her next: "Why did I
ever do this?" She knew with a strange calm certainty that from this
moment she would never be rid of Martin's presence again. She had
maintained for more than a year a wonderful make-believe of
indifference. She had fancied that by, pushing furiously with both
hands one could drive things into the past. But Fate was cleverer than
that. What he wanted to keep he kept for you--the weaving of the
pattern in the carpet might be your handiwork, but the final design was
settled before ever the carpet was begun. Not that any of these fine
thoughts ever entered Maggie's head. All that she thought was "I love
Martin. I want to go to him. He's ill. I've got to do my duty about
Paul." She settled upon that last point. She bound her mind around it,
fast and secure like thick cord. She put Mr. Magnus' letter away in the
shell-covered box, the wedding-present from the aunts; in this box were
the programme of the play that she had been to with Martin, the ring
with the three pearls, Martin's few letters, and some petals of the
chrysanthemum, dry and faded, that she had worn on the great day of the
matinee. Something had warned her that it was foolish to keep Martin's
letters, but why should she not? She had never hidden her love for
Martin. Then, standing in the middle of the room, close beside the
large double-bed, with a football-group and "The Crucifixion" staring
down upon her, she had her worst hour. Nothing in all life could have
m