‘Yes, you had better say “No.” You will find it dull, especially if you have to live in London.’ ‘Did you find London dull when you came to live in it?’ ‘Rather; Marshall is away all day long.’ ‘But scarcely any woman in London expects to marry a man who is not away all day.’ ‘They ought then to have heaps of work, or they ought to have a lot of children to look after; but, perhaps, being born and bred in the country, I do not know what people in London are. Recollect you were country born and bred yourself, or, at anyrate, you have lived in the country for the most of your life.’ ‘Dull! we must all expect to be dull.’ ‘There’s nothing worse. I’ve had rheumatic fever, and I say, give me the fever rather than what comes over me at times here. If Marshall had not been so good to me, I do not know what I should have done with myself.’ Madge turned round and looked Mrs Marshall straight in the face, but she did not flinch. ‘Marshall is very good to me, but I was glad when mother and you and your sister came to keep me company when he is not at home. It tired me to have my meals alone: it is bad for the digestion; at least, so he says, and he believes that it was indigestion that was the matter with me. I should be sorry for myself if you were to go away; not that I want to put that forward. Maybe I should never see much more of you: he is rich: you might come here sometimes, but he would not like to have Marshall and mother and me at his house.’ Not a word was spoken for at least a minute. Suddenly Mrs Marshall took Madge’s hand in her own hands, leaned over her, and in that kind of whisper with which we wake a sleeper who is to be aroused to escape from sudden peril, she said in her ear,— ‘Madge, Madge: for God’s sake leave him!’ ‘I have left him.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Quite.’ ‘For ever?’ ‘For ever!’ Mrs Marshall let go Madge’s hand, turned her eyes towards her intently for a moment, and again bent over her as if she were about to embrace her. A knock, however, came at the door, and Mrs Caffyn entered with the cup of coffee which she always insisted on bringing before Madge rose. After she and her daughter had left, Madge read the letter once more. There was nothing new in it, but formally it was something, like the tolling of the bell when we know that our friend is dead. There was a little sobbing, and then she kissed her child with such eagerness that it began to cry. ‘You’ll answer that letter, I suppose?’ said Mrs Caffyn, when they were alone. ‘No.’ ‘I’m rather glad. It would worrit you, and there’s nothing worse for a baby than worritin’ when it’s mother’s a-feedin it.’ Mr Caffyn wrote as follows:— ‘DEAR SIR,—I was sorry as you couldn’t come; but I believe now as it was better as you didn’t. I am no scollard, and so no more from your obedient, humble servant, ‘MRS CAFFYN. ‘_P.S._—I return the money, having no use for the same.