"Quentin, I wish you wouldn't feel that way towards the boys. I can't help loving them." "But you love them more than me." "I don't, indeed I don't. And you mustn't think they hate you. They've got their hand against every one, you know, and of course they feel sick about the Kent lands, there's no denying it. If they knew you loved me, they might hate you then--they'd be jealous; and if I told them now--oh, it would be all misery at home!--for them as well as for me. I'd far rather have my secret--that hurts only me. When we've settled anything definitely, of course I shall tell them. But we may have to go on like this for years." Quentin groaned. "Yes, Janey, that's true--that's the damned truth. You should never have loved a helpless fool like me, all tied up in paper and strings. Good Lord! my father will have something to answer for--if there's any one to answer to for our muddlings in this muddled hell." "But you'll win your independence." "Yes; if two things happen: if my father dies, which he isn't likely to, and which, hang it all, I don't want him to--or if I can make enough by my writing to support two people, which is never done by pessimistic poets in this world of optimistic prose. I ought to hear from Baker soon--he's had that manuscript over a month--he's the twenty-eighth man that's had it. Oh, damn it all, Janey!" They were sitting together on a tree-trunk under the hedge, the darkness creeping up round them. Quentin drew very close to Janey, and clutched her hand.