She thought for a long time; then she got up, and came to him, and put her arm round his neck, and bowed her head and whispered.

“Don’t whisper.  I hate it.  Speak out.  Say what you’ve got to say.”

“I can’t say it.”

She said it very low.

He bent forward, freeing himself from her mouth and clinging arm.

“No, Maggie.  Never.  I told you that in the beginning.  You promised me you wouldn’t think of it.  It’s bad enough as it is.”

“What’s bad enough?”

“Everything, my child.  I’m bad enough, if you like; but I’m not as bad as all that, I can assure you.”

“You don’t think me bad?”

“You know I don’t.  You know what I think of you.  But you must learn to see what’s possible and what isn’t.”

“I do see.  Tell me one thing.  Is it because you love her?”

“We can’t go into that, Maggie.  Can’t you understand that it may be because I love you?”

“I don’t know.  But I don’t mind so long as I know it isn’t only because you love her.”

“You’re not to talk about her, Maggie.”

“I know.  I won’t.  I don’t want to talk about her, I’m sure.  I try not to think about her more than I can help.”

“But you must think of her.”

“Oh—­must I?”

“At any rate, you must think of me.”

“I do think of you.  I think of you from morning till night.  I don’t think of anything else.  I don’t want anything else.  I’m contented as long as I’ve got you.  It wasn’t that.”

“What was it, Maggie?”

“Nothing.  Only—­it’s so awfully lonely in between, when you’re not here.  That was why I asked you.”

“Poor child, poor Maggie.  Is it very bad to bear?”

“Not when I know you’re coming.”

“See here—­if it gets too bad to bear, we must end it.”

“End it?”

“Yes, Maggie. You must end it; you must give me up, when you’re tired—­”

“Oh no—­no,” she cried.

“Give me up,” he repeated, “and go back to town.”

“To Scale?”

“Well, yes; if it’s so lonely here.”

“And give you up?”

“Yes, Maggie, you must; if you go back to Scale.”

“I shall never go back.  Who could I go to?  There’s nobody who’d ’ave me.  I’ve got nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody but you, Wallie.  Nobody but you.  Have you never thought of that?  Why, where should I be if I was to give you up?”

“I see, Maggie. I see. I see.”

Up till then he had seen nothing.  But Maggie, unwise, had put her hand through the fine web of illusion.  She had seen, and made him see, the tragedy of the truth behind it, the real nature of the tie that bound them.  It was an inconsistent tie, permanent in its impermanence, with all its incompleteness terribly complete.  He could not give her up; he had not thought of giving her up; but neither had he thought of keeping her.