She was immensely and unfeignedly
sorry for him--more sorry than she had ever been for any one in her life, but
not sorry enough to deny his words.
So she stood still and felt ashamed and a little hurt, because she had honestly
intended that her journey should end triumphantly; and now she was only filled
with pity most startlingly distinct from love.
"Well?" said Dick, his face steadily turned away. "I never meant to worry you
any more. What's the matter?"
He was conscious that Maisie was catching her breath, but was as unprepared as
herself for the torrent of emotion that followed. She had dropped into a chair
and was sobbing with her face hidden in her hands.
"I can't--I can't!" she cried desperately. "Indeed, I can't. It isn't my
fault. I'm so sorry. Oh, Dickie, I'm so sorry."
Dick's shoulders straightened again, for the words lashed like a whip.
Still the sobbing continued. It is not good to realise that you have failed in
the hour of trial or flinched before the mere possibility of making sacrifices.
"I do despise myself--indeed I do. But I can't. Oh, Dickie, you wouldn't ask
me--would you?" wailed Maisie.
She looked up for a minute, and by chance it happened that Dick's eyes fell on
hers.
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