‘But I can’t take it from you,’ she protested. ‘It isn’t right.’ ‘Right or wrong,’ said he, ‘you and the children can’t live on less, and you’ll find it a tight pinch as it is.’ ‘I can’t take it,’ she said again. They stood on either side of the table with the packet of money between them. ‘It isn’t only that,’ she added. ‘Don’t suppose I think the less of your kindness. . . . I wish I could tell you what I do think . . . but I’m afraid it isn’t right for you to stay on here now George is away.’ ‘That’s why I ought to stay,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand,’ she replied. ‘Men don’t think of such things. It would be the talk of the village. They’d say there was something wrong.’ ‘As long as there bain’t nothing wrong there’s no harm in talk. Talk never hurt nobody.’ ‘There’s George’s mother . . . you don’t know her! Remember what she said that night.’ ‘Do you think I’d ever take the upper hand of you?’ ‘No, no . . . it’s not me,’ she said quickly, turning away from him. ‘Then there’s no call to be soft over it.’ ‘There’s George, too . . .’ ‘Don’t you fret yourself about George,’ he said, and showed her her husband’s letter. ‘That’s what George thinks about it. I reckon that’s good enough.’ For a long time she would not take his money. The hard facts of her case, the words of Mrs Malpas, and the ugly necessity of applying for parish relief, seemed to weigh less with her than this tyrannous modesty. ‘You can take it or leave it,’ he said, ‘but I’ve promised George and the money will come to you just the same. . . . Supposing I get another lodge, the money will be less, that’s all. If you bain’t afeard of me . . . .’ She protested: ‘No . . . no . . . .’ ‘Then I may as well stay on. You can’t do without a man in a place like this. There’s the wood to chop and the water to draw and that. I should have to come here just the same. We’ve got to live on a poor wage, and it’s all the better if I’m here.’ ‘I must think it over,’ she said.