"She looks after you well?" "Looks after me? I don't want looking after." "Takes care of you, I mean. Gives you plenty of nice nourishing things to eat?" "Yes, plenty of nice things. And she comes and sits with me sometimes." "You like her?" "I love her." "That's all right. You see, you _have_ got a friend, after all." "Yes," said Maggie mournfully; and he saw that her thoughts were with Gorst. "But it isn't the same thing, is it?" Majendie could not honestly say it was; so he smiled, instead. "It's a shame," said she, "to go on like this when you've been so good to me." "If I wasn't, you couldn't do it, could you? But what you want me to understand is that, however good I've been, I haven't made things more amusing for you." "No, no," said Maggie vehemently, "I didn't mean that. Indeed I didn't. I only wanted you to know--" "How good _you_'ve been. Is that it? Well, because you're good, there's no reason why you should be dull. Is there?" "I don't know," said Maggie simply. "See here, supposing that, instead of sending me all you earn, you keep some of it to play with? Get Mrs. What's-her-name to go with you to places." "I don't want to go to places," she said. "I want to send it all to you." He lapsed again into his formula. "There really is no reason why you should." "I want to. That's a reason, isn't it?" said she. She said it shyly, tentatively, solemnly almost, as if it were some point in an infant's metaphysics. There was no assurance in her tone, nothing to remind him that Maggie had been the spoiled child of pleasure whose wants were always reasons; nothing to suggest the perverted consciousness of power. "Well--" He straightened himself stiffly for departure. "Are you going?" she said. "I must." "Will you--come again?" "Yes, I'll come, if you want me." He saw again how piteous, how ill she looked. A pang of compassion went through him. And after the pang there came a warm, delicious tremor. It recalled the feeling he used to have when he did things for Edith, a sensation singularly sweet and singularly pure. It was consolation in his misery to realise that any one could want him, even poor, perverted Maggie. Maggie said nothing. But the flame rose in her face. Downstairs Majendie found Mrs. Morse waiting for him at the door. "What's been the matter with her?" he asked. "I don't rightly know, sir. But between you and me, I think she's fretted herself ill." "Well, you've got to see that she doesn't fret, that's all." He gave into her palm an earnest of the reward of vigilance. That night he sent off the embroidered pieces to Mrs. Hannay, and the embroidered frock to Mrs. Ransome; with a note to each lady recommending Maggie, and Maggie's beautiful and innocent art. CHAPTER XXIV