"And how long do you suppose that'll last? We _can't_ bear it. Look at it straight. It's all so horribly simple. If we were beasts and only thought of ourselves and didn't think of Maisie it wouldn't matter to us what we did. But we can't be beasts. We can't lie to Maisie, and we can't tell her the truth. We can't go on seeing each other without wanting each other--unbearably--and we can't go on wanting each other without--some day--giving in. It comes back the first minute we're alone. And we don't mean to give in. So we mustn't see each other, that's all. Can you tell me one other thing I can do?" "But why should it be _you_? Why should you get the worst of it?" "Because one of us has got to clear out. It can't be you, so it's got to be me. And going away isn't the worst of it. It'll be worse for you sticking on here where everything reminds you--At least I shall have new things to keep my mind off it." "Nothing will keep your mind off it. You'll fret yourself to death." "No, I shan't. I shall have too much to do. You're _not_ to be sorry for me, Jerrold." "But you're giving up everything. The Barrow Farm. The place you wanted. You won't have a thing." "I don't want 'things.' It's easier to chuck them than to hang on to them when they'll remind me.... Really, if I could see any other way I'd take it." "But you can't go. You're not fit to go. You're ill." "I shall be all right when I get there." "But what do you think you're going to _do_ in Canada? It's not as if you'd got anything to go for." "I shall find something. I shall work on somebody's ranch first and learn Canadian farming. Then I shall look out for land and buy it. I've got stacks of money. All Grandpapa Everitt's, and the money for the farm. Stacks. I shall get on all right." "When did you think of all this?" "Last night." "I see. I made you." "No. I made myself. After all, it's the easiest way." "For you, or me?" "For both of us. Honestly, it's the only straight thing. I ought to have done it long ago." "It means never seeing each other again. You'll never come back." "Never while we're young. When we're both old, too old to feel any more, then I'll come back some day, and we'll be friends." And still his will beat against hers in vain, till at last he stopped; sick and exhausted. They went together down the ploughed land into the pastures, and through the pastures to the mill water. In the opposite field they could see the brown roof and walls of the shelter. "What are you going to plant in the Seven Acres field?" "Barley," he said. "You can't. It was barley last year." "Was it?" They were silent then. Jerrold struggled with his feeling of deadly sickness. Anne couldn't trust herself to speak. At the Barrow Farm gate they parted. ii