"Not you. You said you couldn't stand another evening like yesterday.... _All the evenings would be like yesterday_.... Please.... Even if there wasn't Mamma, you don't want to marry. If you'd wanted to you'd have done it long ago, instead of waiting till you're forty-five. Think of two people tied up together for life whether they both like it or not. It isn't even as if one of them could be happy. How could you if the other wasn't? Look at the Sutcliffes. Think how he hated it.... And _he_ was a kind, patient man. You know you wouldn't dream of marrying me if you didn't think it was the only possible way." "Well--isn't it?" "No. The one impossible way. I'd do anything for you but that.... Anything." "Would you, Mary? Would you have the courage?" "It would take infinitely more courage to marry you. We should be risking more. All the beautiful things. If it wasn't for Mamma.... But there _is_ Mamma. So--you see." She thought: "He _hasn't_ kissed me. He _hasn't_ held me in his arms. He'll be all right. It won't hurt him." V. That was Catty's white apron. Catty stood on the cobbled square by the front door, looking for her. When she saw them coming she ran back into the house. She was waiting in the passage as Mary came in. "The mistress is upset about something," she said. "After she got Mr. Nicholson's letter." "There wasn't anything to upset her in that, Catty." "P'raps not, Miss Mary; but I thought I'd tell you." Mamma had been crying all evening. Her pocket-handkerchief lay in her lap, a wet rag. "I thought you were never coming back again," she said. "Why, where did you think I'd gone?" "Goodness knows where. I believe there's nothing you wouldn't do. I've no security with you, Mary.... Staying out till all hours of the night.... Sitting up with that man.... You'll be the talk of the place if you don't take care." (She thought: "I must let her go on. I won't say anything. If I do it'll be terrible.") "I can't think what possessed you...." ("Why did I do it? _Why_ did I smash it all up? Uncle Victor suicided. That's what I've done.... I've killed myself.... This isn't me.") "If that's what comes of your publishing I'd rather your books were sunk to the bottom of the sea. I'd rather see you in your coffin." "I _am_ in my coffin." "I wish I were in mine," her mother said. * * * * * Mamma was getting up from her chair, raising herself slowly by her arms. Mary stooped to pick up the pocket-handkerchief. "Don't, Mamma; I've got it." Mamma went on stooping. Sinking, sliding down sideways, clutching at the edge of the table. Mary saw terror, bright, animal terror, darting up to her out of Mamma's eyes, and in a place by themselves the cloth sliding, the lamp rocking and righting itself. She was dragging her up by her armpits, holding her up. Mamma's arms were dangling like dolls' arms.