"You can't say what would have been best for _me_," he returned unsteadily; "I'd rather have known you as I do than that we hadn't met. For yourself, perhaps----" "Hush!" she interrupted; "we can neither of us forget what our meeting was. For myself, I owe my very life to meeting you; that's why the result of it is so abominable--such a shame! I haven't said much, but I remember every day what I owe you. I know I owe you the very clothes I wear." "Oh, for God's sake!" he muttered. "And my repayment is to make you unhappy--and her unhappy. It's noble!" Her pace quickened, and to see her excited acted upon him very strongly. He longed to comfort her, and because this was impossible by reason of the disparity of their sentiments, the sight of her emotion was more painful. He had never felt the hopelessness of his attachment so heavy on him as now that he saw her disturbed on account of it, and realised at the same time that it debarred him from offering her consolation. They walked along, gazing before them fixedly into the vista of the shut-up shops and Sunday quietude, until at last he said with an effort: "If you did go you'd make me unhappier than ever." She did not reply to this; and after a glance at the troubled profile: "I am ready to do whatever you want," he added; "whatever will make the position easiest to you. It seems that, with the best intentions, I've only succeeded in giving annoyance to you both. But the wrong to my mother can be remedied; and if I drive you away I shall have done some lasting harm.... Why don't you say that you'll remain?" "Because I'm not sure about it. I can't determine." "Your objection was the fancy that you were responsible for my seeing her so seldom; I've promised to see her as often as I can." She bit her lip. She said nothing. "I can't do any more--can I?" "No," she confessed. "Then, what's the matter?" "The matter is that----" "What?" "You show me more plainly every minute that I _ought_ to go." Something in the dumbness with which the announcement was received told her how unexpected it had been. And, indeed, to hear that his love, unperceived by himself, had been fighting against him was the hardest thing that he had had to bear. Sensible that every remonstrance that escaped him would estrang them further, the man felt helpless. They were crossing the churchyard now, and she said something about the impracticability of her going any further. "Well, as you'll come oftener, our talk hasn't been useless!" "Wait a second," he said. He paused by the porch, and looked at her. "I can't leave you like this. Mary----!" "Oh!" she faltered, "don't say anything--don't!"