‘But yes! Your divine gift shall not perish from want of use; you shall go back to the Art which you so love, and I--I shall be by, to rejoice in your happiness and your success.’ Instead of receiving the proposal with joy, as he had anticipated, Madeline rose, trembling and very pale. ‘Do not decide hastily,’ said Forster, gently, ‘but think it well over.’ ‘It is quite unnecessary--I shall never act again; never! never!’ ‘Madeline!’ ‘I have disgraced you enough already.’ ‘Disgraced me--God forbid! Madeline, you are my pride, my treasure--only honour can come to me through you. Don’t think I am such a Philistine as to underrate your gifts, or the art you delight to follow. When I persuaded you to adopt this quiet life, I thought it might be better for your peace of mind, for your health. I see that I was wrong. Genius like yours cannot be contented with the mere humdrum of an English home. I was selfish, dear. You shall be my Imogen again, and, as I said, I will share your happy triumphs.’ ‘It is impossible,’ cried Madeline, impetuously. ‘I hate the stage. Rather than return to it I would die.’ It was now Forster’s turn to be amazed. ‘Hate the stage!’ he echoed. ‘Ah, you do not mean what you say.’ ‘But I do mean it. When I first acted it was for my guardian’s sake--to make him happy, and, perhaps, rich. But I never loved the life, and now--I sicken at it. Oh, James!’ she continued, in deepening agitation, ‘do not think me foolish or ungrateful. I am quite, quite happy here with you. Yes, when we are alone together, when we are away from the world and all its feverish tumult, I am more than happy--I am at peace. Don’t think otherwise. You ask me to go back into the world; it is the world that makes me miserable. If we should go away together--far from London, far from the wicked city--to some green country place, where none could know us, none could care for us, then, I think, I should be at peace indeed.’ As she spoke, she threw herself into his arms, for he had risen as if to implore her to be calm, and laid her head upon his breast. ‘Then you are not unhappy?’ ‘I don’t know--I cannot tell!’ she sobbed. ‘I think it is my disposition--never quite contented, never restful. When I was a child, I was a trouble to those who loved me; and afterwards--afterwards everything seemed to go wrong with me. But oh! do not think that I am ungrateful--that I do not love you as you deserve. I do! I do! I do!’ And as she clung to him sobbing, she repeated her protestations again and again. He too was strongly moved, and tried in vain to calm her. ‘It is like you to reproach yourself,’ he said tenderly. ‘My loving, unselfish darling!’ ‘But I am selfish,’ she said. ‘I am not good, like you, James. It would have been better, far better, if we had never met.’ ‘Don’t say that, Madeline!’ ‘I must say it. I bring sorrow to all that love me.’ ‘You have never brought sorrow to me. Only happiness, my dear!’