“It’s all right, Maggie, it’s all right.”

Maggie clasped her knees and sat thinking.  She seemed to know by intuition when it was advantageous to be silent, and when to speak.  But Majendie was thinking, too.  He was wondering whether he was not being a little too kind to Maggie; whether a little unkindness would not be a salutary change for both of them.  Why couldn’t the girl marry Mr. Mumford?  He didn’t want to profit by the transaction.  He would have gladly paid Mr. Mumford to marry her, and take her away.

He put his hand over his eyes as a veil for his thoughts; and when he took it away again, Maggie had risen and was going on soundless feet towards the door.

“Don’t go,” she said, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He flung himself back in the chair and waited.  The minutes dragged.  He had wanted Maggie away; and now she had gone he wanted her back again.

Maggie did not stay away long enough to give him time to discover how much he wanted her.  She came back, carrying a tray with cups and a steaming coffee pot, and set it on the table.

A fragrance of strong coffee filled the room.  The service of the god had begun.

She stood close against his side, yet humbly, as she handed him his cup.  “It’s nice and strong,” she said.  “Drink it.  It’ll do your head good.”

And she sat down opposite him, and watched him drink it.

Maggie’s watching face was luminous and tender.  In her eyes there was the look that love gives for his signal—­love that, in that moment, was pure and sweet as a mother’s.  She was glad to think that the coffee was strong, and would do his head good.  She had no other thought in her mind, at that moment.

After the coffee she brought matches and cigarettes, which she offered shyly.  Nature had given her an immortal shyness, born of her extreme humility.

“They’re all right,” she said, “Charlie smoked them.” (Charlie was at times a useful memory.)

She struck a match and prepared to light the cigarette.  This she did gravely and efficiently, with no sign of feminine consciousness or coquetry.  It was part of the solemn evening service of the god.  And, as he smoked, the devotee retreated to her chair and watched him.

“Maggie,” he said, “supposing Mr. Mumford was to come in?”

“He won’t.  Sunday’s his day; or would be, if I let him ’ave a day.”

“Why don’t you?”

She shook her head.  “I’ve seen nobody.”

There was silence for five minutes.

“Mr. Magendy—­”

“Majendie, Maggie, Majendie.”

“Mr. Mashendy—­I’m beginning to be afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“What I’ve always told you about.  That awful feeling.  It’s coming on again, I think.”

“It won’t come, Maggie, it won’t come.  Don’t think about it, and it won’t come.”

He didn’t understand very clearly what Maggie was talking about; but he remembered that, last September, after her illness, she had been afraid of something.  And he remembered that he had comforted her with some such words as these.