"I don't. I do love you. I do want you," she whispered. "Just as much as you want me, but not now. Oh, Maurice, I wish you could understand." "Well, I can't," he said coldly. "Look here, you've quarreled with your mother. That's one obstacle out of the way." "But it isn't. She's still alive." "You've known me long enough to be sure I'm not likely to turn out a rotter. You needn't worry about money, and--you love me or pretend to. Now why in the name of fortune can't you be sensible?" "But there'll come a moment, Maurice darling, and I think it will come soon, when I shall say 'yes' of my own accord. And whatever you said or done before that moment couldn't make me say 'yes' now." "And meanwhile I'm to go on wearing myself out with asking?" "No," she murmured, afire with blushes at such revelation of himself. "No, I'll say 'Maurice' and then you'll know." "And I'm to go off to Spain with nothing to hope for but 'one day, one day'?" "You'll have other things to think about there." "You're rather amusing with your proposed diversions for my imagination. But, seriously, will it be 'yes' when I come back, say, in a fortnight?" "No, not yet. Not for a little while. Oh, don't ask me any more; you are unkind." Maurice seemed to give up the pursuit suddenly. "I sha'n't see you for some time," he said. "Never mind," Jenny consoled him. "Think how lovely it will be when we do see each other." "Good-bye," said Maurice bluntly. "Oh, what an unnatural way to say good-bye." "Well, I've got to pack up and catch the 6.30 down to Claybridge. I'll write to you." "You needn't trouble," she told him, chilled by his manner. "Don't be foolish, I must write. Good-bye, Jenny." He seemed to offer his embrace more from habit than desire. "I've got to change first," she said, making no movement towards the enclosure of his arms. It struck them both that they had passed through a thousand emotions, he in the sculptor's blouse of his affectation, she in her tarlatan skirt. "It's like a short story by de Maupassant," said Maurice. "Is it? You and your likes! I'm like a soppy girl." "You are," said Maurice with intention. To Jenny, for the first time, he seemed to be criticising her. "Thanks," she said, as, with a shrug of the shoulder and curl of the lip, she walked out of the studio, coldly hostile. The rage was too deep to prevent her from arranging her hair with deliberation. Nor did she fumble over a single hook in securing the skirt of ordinary life. Soon Maurice was tapping at the door, but she could not answer him. "Jenny," he called, "I've come to say I'm a pig." Still she did not answer; but, when she was perfectly ready, flung open the door and said tonelessly: "Please let me pass." Her eyes, resentful, their luster fled, were dull as lapis lazuli. Her lips were no longer visible. "You mustn't go away like this. Jenny, we sha'n't see one another for a fortnight or more. Don't let's part bad friends." "Please let me pass."