“Louis, I don’t know very much.  I’ve proved I can’t hold you very well already, but I care an awful lot.  Louis—­how would it be if you threw it all on to me for a while till either you believe in God or in yourself?  And I’ve a sort of belief that, whichever you believe in first, you’ll believe in the other automatically—­I’m not a bit clever, Louis.  I never was.  Always I get puzzled, always I realize how utterly unlearned I am.  Always father called me an idiot and threw things at me for it.  But in spite of being a duffer I’m sure I can help you.”

“You could if you were with me every minute.  I’d rather be with you than most people.  But the minute I’m away from you I get dragged.”

“Well, why shouldn’t I stop with you the whole time, never leave you a minute?  Let’s be married, and then I could.”

She looked at him anxiously.  There was not a glimmer of shyness or excitement about her.  She was still in her dream world; she knew that marriage would keep them together always.  So she suggested marriage.  She was not, yet, consciously in love.

He stared at her, stammered a little as he tried to speak and then, suddenly sobered, snatched at her hand.

“Do you mean it, knowing what I am?  I’m an awful waster, Marcella—­there’s nothing on earth I can do for a living.”

She frowned a little.

“But that’s nothing to do with it.  We’ll find some way of living.  You know that.  We’d have to if we were not married, wouldn’t we?  And stop all this about being a waster.  You’re not anything of the sort.  You’re not anything but what you’re going to be.”

“And you really, really, won’t go back on it?  I make so many promises and break them.  I can’t believe other people much.”

“Of course I won’t go back on it.  I want to stay with you.  I never want to be with anyone else at all on earth.”

“But why?” he asked, humble for the first time in his life.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.  You seem very clever to me.  That’s one thing.  And—­and the way you depend.  Oh dear, I feel I’ve got to kidnap both you and Jimmy and run away with you to some safe place.”

“Good Lord!” he said, laughing harshly.  “I’m just thinking of Violet.”

“Why?  She can’t mind, now she’s married.”

“No.  It was the idea of Violet’s trying to kidnap me, and loving me because I depended on her.  Lord, she did the depending.”

“That was why she wasn’t any use to you, I suppose.  Besides, Louis, you know, I love you when you’re not—­not ill.  And I love the way your eyes look.”

“Good Lord,” he cried again, and started up sharply.  “I say, Marcella, I’m off to have a bath.  Wait here for me—­” He peeped into her mirror.  He had not shaved for a week and looked thoroughly disreputable.  Holding out his hand he looked at it earnestly.  It shook, as he had expected.

“Oh, I say, what a waster I look.  I do hope to the Lord my hand’s steady enough for a shave.”