And yet I've
never felt about any woman as I do about you, that I wanted to be
good to her and care for her and love her. It's always whether they
loved me that I've thought about . . . Well, now I've told you, you
see that I'd better go, hadn't I? You see . . . you see."
She looked up at him.
"I've got to think. It makes a difference, of course. Can we meet
after a week and talk again?"
"Much better if I don't see you any more. I'll go away altogether--
abroad again."
"No--after a week--"
"Much better not."
"Yes. Come here after a week. And if we can't be alone I'll give you
a letter somehow . . . Please, Martin--you must."
"Maggie, just think--"
"No--after a week."
"Very well, then," he turned on her fiercely. "I've been honest.
I've told you. I've done all I can. If I love you now it isn't my
fault."
He left the room, not looking at her again. And she stood there,
staring in front of her.
CHAPTER VI
THE PROPHET IN HIS OWN HOME
Martin walked into the street with a confused sense of triumph and
defeat, that confusion that comes to all sensitive men at the moment
when they are stepping, against their will, from one set of
conditions into another.
Pages:
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342