"That's absurd," said she. "It wouldn't be proper."
"Now, who in all London tonight would have sufficient interest or audacity to
call us two to account for anything we chose to do?"
Maisie looked at the lamps, the fog, and the hideous turmoil. Dick was right;
but horseflesh did not make for Art as she understood it.
"You're very nice sometimes, but you're very foolish more times. I'm not going
to let you give me horses, or take you out of your way tonight. I"ll go home by
myself. Only I want you to promise me something. You won't think any more about
that extra threepence, will you? Remember, you've been paid; and I won't allow
you to be spiteful and do bad work for a little thing like that. You can be so
big that you mustn't be tiny."
This was turning the tables with a vengeance. There remained only to put Maisie
into her hansom.
"Goodbye," she said simply. "You'll come on Sunday. It has been a beautiful
day, Dick. Why can't it be like this always?"
"Because love's like line-work: you must go forward or backward; you can't
stand still. By the way, go on with your line-work. Good night, and, for my--
for my sake, take care of yourself."
He turned to walk home, meditating. The day had brought him nothing that he
hoped for, but--surely this was worth many days--it had brought him nearer to
Maisie.
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