Maggie’s pitiful doubt was always whether “they” would “have” her.

“Yes,” he said, smiling at her pathos, “perhaps they would.”

“Or I could do embroidery.  I learned, years ago, at Madame Ponting’s.  I could go back.  Only Madame wouldn’t have me.” (Maggie was palpably foolish; but her folly was adorable.)

“Why wouldn’t she have you?”

Maggie reddened, and he forbore to press the unkind inquiry.  He gathered that Maggie’s ways had been not unknown to Madame Ponting, “years ago.”

“Would you like to see some of my embroidery?”

He assented gravely.  He did not want to turn Maggie from the path of industry, which was to her the path of virtue.

She went to a cupboard, and returned with her arms full of little rolls and parcels wrapped in paper.  She unfolded and spread on the table various squares, and strips, and little pieces, silk and woollen stuffs, and canvas, exquisitely embroidered.  There were flowers in most of the patterns—­flowers, as it appeared, of Maggie’s fancy.

“I say, did you do all that yourself, Maggie?”

“Yes, that’s what I can do.  I make the patterns out of me head, and they’re mostly flowers, because I love ’em.  It’s pretty, isn’t it?” said Maggie, stroking tenderly a pattern of pansies, blue pansies, such as she had never sold in Evans’s shop.

“Very pretty—­very beautiful.”

“I’ve sold lots—­to a lady, before I was ill.  See here.”

Maggie unfolded something that was pinned in silver paper with a peculiar care.  It was a small garment, in some faint-coloured silk, embroidered with blue pansies (always blue pansies).

“That’s a frock,” said she, “for a little girl.  You’ve got a little girl—­a little fair girl.”

He reddened.  How the devil, he wondered, does she know that I have a little fair girl?  “I don’t think it would fit her,” he said.

Maggie reddened now.

“Oh—­I don’t want you to buy it.  I don’t want you to buy anything.  Only to tell people.”

So much he promised her.  He tried to think of all the people he could tell.  Mrs. Hannay, Mrs. Ransome, Mrs. Gardner—­no, Mrs. Gardner was Anne’s friend.  If Anne had been different he could have told Anne.  He could have told her everything.  As it was—­No.

He rose to go, but, instead of going, he stayed and bought several pieces of embroidery for Mrs. Hannay, and the frock, not for Peggy, but for Mrs. Ransome’s little girl.  They haggled a good deal over the price, owing to Maggie’s obstinate attempts to ruin her own market. (She must always have been bent on ruining herself, poor child.) Then he tried to go again, and Mrs. Morse came in with the tea-tray, and Maggie insisted on making him a cup of tea, and of course he had to stay and drink it.

Maggie revived over her tea-tray.  Her face flushed and rounded again to an orb of jubilant content.  And he asked her if she were happy.  If she liked her work.