“Then if Maimie were worse—if she were even dying,” I said, “you would not come to her?”
“Well, I don’t really see much good,” he said hesitatingly. “I’m not a hand at sick people, and I don’t like scenes. And, after all, it’s adding to risks of infection; and one has no business to spread things.”
“And if she should ask for you, Churton?”
“Oh, she won’t; there’s no fear. The girl’s changed, and doesn’t care for me. Not that I mean to give her up—if—but still—”
And Churton went off, while I returned to Maimie’s side, musing on the selfishness of the man.
One day, when very ill, Maimie said sadly, “I am so sorry.”
“Sorry for what, darling?” I asked.
“My wilfulness. It was wrong,” she said. “I see that now. I was right to want to help you; but I ought not to have taken my own way.”
“It was lovingly meant, Maimie.”
“Yes; but it was choosing my own way. You had forbidden me, and disobedience couldn’t be right. I have brought all this on myself.”