“Yes, but it may happen again.  We can’t go on like this, Jerry.  The strain’s too awful.”

“You mean you can’t trust me.”

“I can’t trust myself.  And it isn’t fair to you.”

“Oh, me.  That doesn’t matter.”

“Well, then, say I matter.  It’s the same for me.  I’m never going to let that happen again.  I’m going away.”

“Going away—­”

“Yes.  And I’m not coming back this time.”

His voice struggled in his throat.  Something choked him.  He couldn’t speak.

“I’m going to Canada in a fortnight.”

“Good God!  You can’t go to Canada.”

“I can.  I’ve booked my passage.”

His face was suddenly sallow white, ghastly.  His heart heaved and he felt sick.

“Nothing on earth will stop me.”

“Won’t Maisie stop you?  If you do this she’ll know.  Can’t you see how it gives us away?”

“No.  It’ll only give me away.  If Maisie asks me why I’m going I shall tell her I’m in love with you, and that I can’t stand it; that I’m too unhappy.  I’d rather she thought I cared for you than that she should think you cared for me.”

“She’ll think it all the same.”

“Then I shall have to lie.  I must risk it....  Oh Jerry, don’t look so awful!  I’ve got to go.  We’ve settled it that we can’t go on deceiving her, and we aren’t going to make her unhappy.  There’s nothing else to be done.”

“Except to bear it.”

“And how long do you suppose that’ll last?  We can’t bear it.  Look at it straight.  It’s all so horribly simple.  If we were beasts and only thought of ourselves and didn’t think of Maisie it wouldn’t matter to us what we did.  But we can’t be beasts.  We can’t lie to Maisie, and we can’t tell her the truth.  We can’t go on seeing each other without wanting each other—­unbearably—­and we can’t go on wanting each other without—­some day—­giving in.  It comes back the first minute we’re alone.  And we don’t mean to give in.  So we mustn’t see each other, that’s all.  Can you tell me one other thing I can do?”

“But why should it be you?  Why should you get the worst of it?”

“Because one of us has got to clear out.  It can’t be you, so it’s got to be me.  And going away isn’t the worst of it.  It’ll be worse for you sticking on here where everything reminds you—­At least I shall have new things to keep my mind off it.”

“Nothing will keep your mind off it.  You’ll fret yourself to death.”

“No, I shan’t.  I shall have too much to do.  You’re not to be sorry for me, Jerrold.”

“But you’re giving up everything.  The Barrow Farm.  The place you wanted.  You won’t have a thing.”

“I don’t want ‘things.’  It’s easier to chuck them than to hang on to them when they’ll remind me....  Really, if I could see any other way I’d take it.”

“But you can’t go.  You’re not fit to go.  You’re ill.”