“Oh, I don’t know.”

“If you are thinking of me,” said George, “please don’t.  I know exactly what you mean.  You are hating the thought of hurting my feelings.  I wish you would look on me as having no feelings.  All I want is to see you happy.  As I said just now, it’s enough for me to know that I’ve helped you.  Do be reasonable about it.  The fact that our engagement has been officially announced makes no difference in our relations to each other.  As far as we two are concerned, we are exactly where we were the last time we met.  It’s no worse for me now than it was then to know that I’m not the man you love, and that there’s somebody else you loved before you ever knew of my existence.  For goodness’ sake, a girl like you must be used to having men tell her that they love her and having to tell them that she can’t love them in return.”

“But you’re so different.”

“Not a bit of it.  I’m just one of the crowd.”

“I’ve never known anybody quite like you.”

“Well, you’ve never known anybody quite like Plummer, I should imagine.  But the thought of his sufferings didn’t break your heart.”

“I’ve known a million men exactly like Edwin Plummer,” said Maud emphatically.  “All the men I ever have known have been like him—­quite nice and pleasant and negative.  It never seemed to matter refusing them.  One knew that they would be just a little bit piqued for a week or two and then wander off and fall in love with somebody else.  But you’re different.  You . . . matter.”

“That is where we disagree.  My argument is that, where your happiness is concerned, I don’t matter.”

Maud rested her chin on her hand, and stared out into the velvet darkness.

“You ought to have been my brother instead of Percy,” she said at last.  “What chums we should have been!  And how simple that would have made everything!”

“The best thing for you to do is to regard me as an honorary brother.  That will make everything simple.”

“It’s easy to talk like that . . .  No, it isn’t.  It’s horribly hard.  I know exactly how difficult it is for you to talk as you have been doing—­to try to make me feel better by pretending the whole trouble is just a trifle . . .  It’s strange . . .  We have only met really for a few minutes at a time, and three weeks ago I didn’t know there was such a person as you, but somehow I seem to know everything you’re thinking.  I’ve never felt like that before with any man . . .  Even Geoffrey. . .  He always puzzled me. . . .”

She broke off.  The corncrake began to call again out in the distance.

“I wish I knew what to do,” she said with a catch in her voice.