so damnably as that?"

"But it's all right now. Why did you say it was too late?"

"Because it _was_ too late. I was married."

"What _do_ you mean?"

"I mean that I lied when I told you it made no difference. It made that
difference. If I hadn't thought that you and Colin were...if I hadn't
thought that, I wouldn't have married Maisie. I'd have married you."

"Don't say that, Jerrold."

"Well--you asked for the truth, and there it is."

She got up and walked away from him to the window. He followed her
there. She spread out her hands to the cold rain.

"It's raining still," she said.

He caught back her hands.

"Would you have married me?"

"Don't, Jerrold, don't. It's cruel of you."

He was holding her by her hands.

"_Would_ you? Tell me. Tell me."

"Let go my hands, then."

He let them go. They turned back to the fireplace. Anne shivered. She
held herself to the warmth.

"You haven't told me," he said.

"No, I haven't told you," she repeated, stupidly.

"That's because you _would_. That's because you love me. You do love
me."

"I've always loved you."

She spoke as if from some far-off place; as if the eternity of her love
removed her from him, put her beyond his reach.

"But--what's the good of talking about it?" she said.

"All the good in the world. We owed each other the truth. We know it
now; we know where we are. We needn't humbug ourselves and each other
any more. You see what comes of keeping back the truth. Look how we've
had to pay for it. You and me. Would you rather go on thinking I didn't
care for you?"

"No, Jerrold, no. I'm only wondering what we're to do next."

"Next?"

"Yes. _That's_ why you want me to go away."

"It isn't. It's why I want you to stay. I want you to leave off working
and do all the jolly things we used to do."

"You mustn't make me leave off working. It's my only chance."

They turned restlessly from the fireplace to the couch. They sat one at
each end of it, still for a long time, without speaking. The fire died
down. The evening darkened in the rain. The twilight came between them,
poignant and disquieting, dimming their faces, making them strange and
wonderful to each other. Their bodies loomed up through it, wonderful
and strange. The high white stone chimney-piece glimmered like an arch
into some inner place.

Outside, from the church below the farm house, the bell tinkled for
service.

It ceased.

Suddenly they rose and he came towar