She could scarcely see
Paul now; when he spoke his voice came, disembodied, out of the
dusk.
"You'll never forget him, then?" at last he asked.
"No."
"You're strange. You don't belong to us. I should have seen that
at the beginning. I knew nothing about women and thought that all
that I wanted--oh God, why should I be so tempted? I've been a good
man . . ." Then he came close to her and put his hand on her
shoulder and even drew her to him. "I won't bother you any more,
Maggie. I'll conquer this. We'll be friends as you want. It isn't
fair to you--"
She felt the control that he was keeping on himself and she admired
him. Nevertheless she knew, young though she was, that if she let
him go now she was losing him for ever. The strangest pang of
loneliness and isolation seized her. If Paul left her and Martin
wasn't there, she was lonely indeed. She saw quite clearly how his
laziness would come to his aid. He would summon first his virtue and
his religion, and twenty years of abstinence would soon reassert
their sway; then he would slip back into the old, lazy, self-
complacent being that he had been before.
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