“But I do mean it, Eddy.” Her voice came small and uncertain through the fog-choked air. “Truly I do. You see, the things I hate and can’t get over are just nothing at all to you. We don’t feel the same about right and wrong.... There’s religion, now. You want me, and you’d want me more if we were married, to be friends with people who haven’t any, in the sense I mean, and don’t want any. Well, I can’t. I’ve often told you. I suppose I’m made that way. So there it is; it wouldn’t be happy a bit, for either of us.... And then there are the wrong things people do, and which you don’t mind. Perhaps I’m a prig, but anyhow we’re different, and I do mind. I shall always mind. And I shouldn’t like to feel I was getting in the way of your having the friends you liked, and we should have to go separate ways, and though you could be friends with all my friends--because you can with everyone--I couldn’t with all yours, and we should hate it. You want so many more kinds of things and people than I do; I suppose that’s it.” (Arnold Denison, who had once said, “Her share of the world is homogeneous; his is heterogeneous,” would perhaps have been surprised at her discernment, confirming his.) Eddy said, “I want you. Whatever else I want, I want you. If you want me--if you did want me, as I thought you did--it would be enough. If you don’t.... But you do, you must, you do.” And it was no argument. And she had reason and logic on her side, and he nothing but the unreasoning reason of love. And so through the dim afternoon they fought it out, and he came up against a will firmer than his own, holding both their loves in check, a vision clearer than his own, seeing life steadily and seeing it whole, till at last the vision was drowned in tears, and she sobbed to him to go, because she would talk no more. He went, vanquished and angry, out into the black, muffled city, and groped his way to Soho, like a man who has been robbed of his all and is full of bitterness but unbeaten, and means to get it back by artifice or force. He went back next day, and the day after that, hammering desperately on the shut door of her resolve. The third day she left London and went home. He only saw Mrs. Crawford, who looked at him speculatively and with an odd touch of pity, and said, “So it’s all over. Molly seems to know her own mind. I dislike broken engagements exceedingly; they are so noticeable, and give so much trouble. One would have thought that in all the years you have known each other one of you might have discovered your incompatibility before entering into rash compacts. But dear Molly only sees a little at a time, and that extremely clearly. She tells me you wouldn’t suit each other. Well, she may be right, and anyhow I suppose she must be allowed to judge. But I am sorry.”