“What should I have cared if every soul in the world who knows me had arranged himself and herself in rows and ranks to get a good view? I’d have done the same if Grumper had been beside me in the carriage. What is the rest of the World to me, beside _you_, darling?… Oh, your _poor_ hair, and what is that horrid scar, my dearest? And you are a ‘2 Q.G.’ are you, and how soon may you marry? I’m going to disappear from Monksmead, now, just like you did, darling, and I’m coming here and I’m going to be a soldier’s wife. Can I live with you in your house in barracks, Dammy, or must I live outside, and you come home directly your drill and things are finished?” Dam groaned aloud in hopeless bitterness of soul. “Lucille—listen,” said he. “I earn one-and tuppence a day. I may not marry. If you were a factory-girl or a coster-woman I would not drag you down so. Apart from that, I am unfit to marry any decent woman. I am—what you know I am…. I have—fits. I am not—sound—normal—I may go m….” “Don’t be a pure priceless Ass, darling. You are my own splendid hero—and I am going to marry you, if I have to _be_ a factory-girl or a coster-woman, and I am going to live either with you or near you. You want looking after, my own boy. I shall have some money, though, when I am of age. When may I run away from Monksmead, darling?” “Lucille,” groaned the miserable man. “Do you think that the sight of you in the mire in which I wallow would make me happier? Can’t you realize that I’m ruined and done—disgraced and smashed? Lucille, I am not sane at times…. The SNAKE … _Do_ you love me, Lucille? Then if so, I beg and implore you to forget me, to leave me alone, to wait awhile and then marry Delorme or some sane, wholesome _man_—who is neither a coward nor a lunatic nor an epileptic. Lucille, you double and treble my misery. I _can’t_ bear it if I see you. Oh, why didn’t you forget me and do the right and proper thing? I am unfit to touch you! I am a damned scoundrel to be here now,” and leaping up he fled like a maddened horse, bounded down the slope, sprang into the road, nor ceased to run till he fell exhausted, miles away from the spot whereon he had suffered as he believed few men had done before. And thus and thus we women live! With none to question, none to give The Nay or Aye, the Aye or Nay That might smoothe half our cares away. O, strange indeed! And sad to know We pitch too high and doing so, Intent and eager not to fall, We miss the low clear note of call. Why is it so? Are we indeed So like unto the shaken reed? Of such poor clay? Such puny strength? That e’en throughout the breadth and length Of purer vision’s stern domain We bend to serve and serve in vain? To some, indeed, strange power is lent To stand content. Love, heaven-sent, (For things or high or pure or rare) Shows likest God, makes Life less bare. And, ever and anon there stray In faint far-reaching virèlay The songs of angels, Heav’nward-found, Of little children, earthward-bound.