“Well—­he ought to marry a lady, I know.  But he can’t marry a lady.  She’d cost him pounds and pounds.  If he married me I’d cost him nothing.  I’d work for him.”

Majendie was startled at this reasoning.  Maggie was more intelligent than he had thought.

She went on.  “I can cook, I can do housework, I can sew.  I’m learning dressmaking.  Look—­” She held up a coarse lining she had been stitching at when he came.  From its appearance he judged that Maggie was as yet a novice in her art.

“I’d work my fingers to the bone for him.”

“And you think he’d be happy seeing you do that?  A gentleman can’t let his wife work for him.  He has to work for her.”  He paused.  “And there’s another reason, Maggie, why he can’t marry you.”

Maggie’s head drooped.  “I know,” she said.  “But I thought—­if he was poor—­he wouldn’t mind so much.  They don’t, sometimes.”

“I don’t think you quite know what I mean.”

“I do.  You mean he’s afraid.  He won’t trust me.  He doesn’t think I’m very good.  But I would be—­if he married me—­I would—­I would indeed.”

“Of course you would.  Whatever happens you’re going to be good.  That wasn’t what I meant by the other reason.”

Her face flamed.  “Has he left off caring for me?”

He was silent, and the flame died in her face.

“Does he care for somebody else?”

“It would be better for you if you could think so.”

“I know,” she said; “it’s the lady he used to send flowers to.  I thought it was all right.  I thought it was funerals.”

She sat very still, taking it in.

“Is he going to marry her?”

“No.  He isn’t going to marry her.”

“She’s not got enough money, I suppose. She can’t help him.”

“You must leave him free to marry somebody who can.”

He waited to see what she would do.  He expected tears, and a storm of jealous rage.  But all Maggie did was to sit stiller than ever, while her tears gathered, and fell, and gathered again.

Majendie rose.  “I may tell Mr. Gorst that you accept his explanation?  That you understand?”

“Am I never to see him again?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Nor write to him?”

“It’s better not.  It only worries him.”

She looked round her, dazed by the destruction of her dream.

“What am I to do, then?  Where am I to go to?”

“Stay where you are, if you’re comfortable.  Your rent will be paid for you, and you shall have a small allowance.”

“But who’s going to give it me?”

“Mr. Gorst would, if he could.  As he cannot, I am.”

“You mustn’t,” said she.  “I can’t take it from you.”

He had approached this point with a horrible dread lest she should misunderstand him.

“Better to take it from me than from him, or anybody else,” he said significantly; “if it must be.”