Somehow she had managed so that, as long as he was with her, shame was impossible for himself or her.  As long as he was with her he was wrapped in her illusion, the illusion of innocence, of happiness, of all the unspoken sanctities of home.  He knew that whether he was or was not with her, as long as he loved her no other man would come between him and her; no other man would cross his threshold and stand upon his hearth.  The house he came to was holy to her.  There were times, so deep was the illusion, when he could have believed that Maggie, sitting there at his feet, was the pure spouse, the helpmate, and Anne, in the house in Prior Street, the unwedded, unacknowledged mistress, the distant, the secret, the forbidden.  He had never disguised from Maggie the temporary and partial nature of the tie that bound them.  But the illusion was too strong for both of them.  It was strong upon him now.

The woman, Mrs. Pearson, came in with supper, moving round the room in silence, devoted and discreet.

Majendie was hungry.  Maggie was unable to conceal her frank joy in seeing him eat and drink.  She ate little and talked a great deal, drawn by his questions.

“What have you been doing, Maggie?”

Maggie gave an account of her innocent days, of her labours in house and farm and garden.  She loved all three, she loved her flowers and her chickens and her rabbits, and the little young pigs.  She loved all things that had life.  She was proud of her house.  Her hands were always busy in it.  She had stitched all the linen for it.  She had made all the tablecloths, sofa covers and curtains, and given to them embroidered borders.  She liked to move about among all these beautiful things and feel that they were hers.  But she loved those most which Majendie had used, or noticed, or admired.  After supper she took up her old position by his chair.

“How long can you stay?” said she.

“I must go to-morrow.”

“Oh, why?”

“I’ve told you why, dear.  It’s my little girl’s birthday to-morrow.”

She remembered.

“Her birthday.  How old will she be to-morrow?”

“Seven.”

“Seven.  What does she do all day long?”

“Oh, she amuses herself.  We have a garden.”

“How she would love this garden, and the flowers, and the swing, and the chickens, and all the animals, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes.  Yes.”

Somehow he didn’t like Maggie to talk about his child, but he hadn’t the heart to stop her.

“Is she as pretty as she was?”

“Prettier.”

“And she’s not a bit like you.”

“Not a bit, not a little bit.”

“I’m glad,” said Maggie.

“Why on earth are you glad?”

“Because—­I couldn’t bear her child to be like you.”

“You mustn’t say those things, Maggie, I don’t like it.”

“I won’t say them.  You don’t mind my thinking them, do you?  I can’t help thinking.”