going to have trouble with her. He was
afraid of her tenderness.

"Why didn't you come last night?" she said.

"I couldn't."

She looked at him with eyes that said, "That is not true."

"You couldn't?"

"I couldn't."

"You came last week."

"Last week--yes. But since then things have happened, do you see?"

"Things have happened," she repeated, under her breath.

"Yes. My little girl is very ill."

"Peggy?" she cried, and covered her face with her hands. Then with her
hands she made a gesture that swept calamity aside. Maggie would only
believe what she wanted.

"She will get better," she said.

"Perhaps. But I must be with my wife."

"You weren't with her last night," said Maggie. "You could have come
then."

"No, Maggie, I couldn't."

"D'you mean--because of the little girl?"

"Yes."

"I see," she said softly. She had understood.

"She will get better," she said, "and then you can come again."

"No. I've told you. I must be with my wife."

"I thought--" said Maggie.

"Never mind what you thought," he said with a quick, fierce impatience.

"Are you fond of her?" she asked suddenly.

"You know I am," he said; and his voice was kind again. "You've known it
all the time. I told you that in the beginning."

"But--since then," said Maggie, "you've been fond of me, haven't you?"

"It's not the same thing. I've told you that, too, a great many times.
I don't want to talk about it. It's different."

"How is it different?"

"I can't tell you."

"You mean--it's different because I'm not good."

"No, my child, I'm afraid it's different because I'm bad. That's as near
as we can get to it."

She shook her head in persistent, obstinate negation.

"See here, Maggie, we must end it. We can't go on like this any more. We
must give it up."

"I can't," she moaned. "Don't ask me to do that, Wallie dear. Don't ask
me."

"I must, Maggie. _I_ must give it up. I told you, dear, before we took
this place, that it must end, sooner or later, that it couldn't last very
long. Don't you remember?"

"Yes--I remember."

"And you promised me, didn't you, that when the time came, you
wouldn't--"

"I know. I said I wouldn't make a fuss."

"Well, dear, we've got to end it now. I only came to talk it over with
you. There'll have to be arrangements."

"I know. I've got to clear out of this."

She said it sadly, without passion and without resentment.

"No," he said, "not if you'd rather stay. Do you