u to stand there," he said.

"That's all very well, George. I know you don't want me to stand
here. I know you don't want to see me ever again."

"Never."

"I know it. Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to
go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"

"That's true, too. I certainly would not wish it. I should be
delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and plenty to drink, and
plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the
most, after all."

"It was only for your sake,--because you liked it."

"Well;--I did like it; but that has come to an end, as have all my
other likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you.
What good do you do yourself by coming here to annoy me? Have I not
told you over and over again that you were never to look for me here?
Is it likely that I should give you money now, simply because you
have disobeyed me!"

"Where else was I to find you?"

"Why should you have found me at all? I don't want you to find me. I
shall give you nothing;--not a penny. You know very well that we've
had all that out before. When I put you into business I told you that
we were to see no more of each other."

"Business!" she said. "I never could make enough out of the shop to
feed a bird."

"That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred
pounds, and you consented to take the place."

"I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my
other home away from me."

"Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you;--and
more than most men would have done, when all things are considered."
Then he got up from the sofa, and stood himself on the hearthrug,
with his back to the fireplace. "At any rate, you may be sure of
this, Jane;--that I shall do nothing more. You have come here to
torment me, but you shall get nothing by it."

"I have come here because I am starving."

"I have nothing for you. Now go;" and he pointed to the door.
Nevertheless, for more than three years of his life this woman had
been his closest companion, his nearest friend, the being with whom
he was most familiar. He had loved her according to his fashion of
loving, and certainly she had loved him. "Go," he said repeating the
word very angrily. "Do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for
you."

"Will you give me a sovereign?"

"No;--I will give you nothing. I have desired you not to come to me
here, and I will not pay f