"I can't take you with me," he said decisively.

"Why not?" She caught hold of his arm entreatingly.

"You are not the same Mary Ann--to other people. You are a somebody.
Before you were a nobody. Nobody cared or bothered about you--you were
no more than a dead leaf whirling in the street."

"Yes, you cared and bothered about me," she cried, clinging to him.

Her gratitude cut him like a knife. "The eyes of the world are on you
now," he said. "People will talk about you if you go away with me now."

"Why will they talk about me? What harm shall I do them?"

Her phrases puzzled him.

"I don't know that you will harm them," he said slowly, "but you will
harm yourself."

"How will I harm myself?" she persisted.

"Well, one day you will want a--a husband. With all that money it is
only right and proper you should marry----"

"No, Mr. Lancelot, I don't want a husband. I don't want to marry. I
should never want to go away from you."

There was another painful silence. He sought refuge in a brusque
playfulness.

"I see you understand _I'm_ not going to marry you."

"Yessir."

He felt a slight relief.

"Well, then," he said, more playfully still, "suppose I wanted to go away
from _you_, Mary Ann?"

"But you love me," she said, unaffrighted.

He started back perceptibly.

After a moment, he replied, still playfully, "I never said so."

"No, sir; but--but----"--she lowered her eyes; a coquette could not have
done it more artlessly--"but I--know it."

The accusation of loving her set all his suppressed repugnances and
prejudices bristling in contradiction. He cursed the weakness that had
got him into this soul-racking situation. The silence clamoured for him
to speak--to do something.

"What--what were you crying about before?" he said abruptly.

"I--I don't know, sir," she faltered.

"Was it Tom's death?"

"No, sir, not much. I did think of him blackberrying with me and our
little Sally--but then he was so wicked! It must have been what missus
said; and I was frightened because the vicar was coming to take me
away--away from you; and then--oh, I don't know--I felt--I couldn't tell
you--I felt I must cry and cry, like that night when----" She paused
suddenly and looked away.

"When----" he said encouragingly.

"I must go--Rosie," she murmured, and took up the tea-tray.

"That night when----" he repeated tenaciously.

"When you first kissed me," she said.

He blushed. "That--t