His cold, hard indifference made her feel safe. She wasn't really safe with Billy. His goodness might disarm her any minute, his sadness might conceivably move her to a tender weakness. But for McClane she would never have any personal feeling, never any fiery affection, any exalted devotion. Neither need she be afraid of any profound betrayal. Small betrayals perhaps, superficial disasters to her vanity, while his egoism rode over it in triumph. He didn't want affection or anything fiery, anything that John had had. He would leave her in her hardness; he would never ask anything but hard, steel-cold loyalty and a willingness to share his risks. "What else can I do? I should have come out if John hadn't. Of course I was glad we could go together, but you mustn't suppose I only went because of him." "I don't. I only thought perhaps you wouldn't want to stay on now he's dead." "More than ever now he's dead. Even if I didn't want to stay I should have to now. To make up." "For what?" "For what he did. All those awful things. And for what he didn't do. His dreams. I've got to do what he dreamed. But more than anything I must pay his debt to Belgium. To all those wounded men." "You're not responsible for his debts, Charlotte." "No? Sometimes I feel as if I were. As if he and I were tied up together. I could get away from him when he was alive. But now he's dead he's got me." "It doesn't make him different." "It makes _me_ different. I tell you, I can't get away from him. And I want to. I want to cut myself loose; and this is the way." "Isn't it the way to tie yourself tighter?" "No. Not when it's _done_, Billy." "I can see a much better way.... If you married me." She turned to him, astonished and a little anxious, as though she thought something odd and dangerous had happened to him. "Oh, Billy, I--I couldn't do that.... What made you think of it?" "I've been thinking of it all the time." "All the time?" "Well, most of the time, anyhow. But I've loved you all the time. You know I loved you. That was why I stuck to Conway. I couldn't leave you to him. I wouldn't even leave you to McClane." "I didn't know." "I should have thought it was pretty, obvious." "It wasn't. I'd have tried to stop it if I'd known." "You couldn't have stopped it." "I'm sorry." "What about?" "That. It isn't any good. It really isn't." "Why isn't it? I know I'm rather a queer chap. And I've got an ugly face--" "I love your _face_...." She loved it, with its composure and its candour, its slightly flattened features, laid back; its little surprised moustache, its short-sighted eyes and its sadness. "It's the dearest face. But--" "I suppose," he said, "it sounds a bit startling and sudden. But if you'd been bottling it up as long as I have--Why, I loved you the first time I saw you. On the boat.... So you see, it's you. It isn't just anything you've done." "If you knew what I _have_ done, my dear. If you only knew. You wouldn't want to marry me."