"Kiss me, Willie," she said; "I'm going back home."
He took her in his arms and kissed her. She released herself, and gazed long in his face.
"Why?" he asked. "You can't bear it; you know you can't. Come with me, Maggie. I don't understand you."
"No; I don't understand myself. I came here meaning to go with you. I came here thinking I could never bear to go back. Ah, you don't know what it is to live there now. But I must go back. Ah, how I hate it!"
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Think—if I came with you! Think, Willie!"
"Yes," he said, as though it had been wrung from him, "I know. But come all the same, Maggie," and with a sudden gust of passion he began to beseech her, declaring that he could not live without her.
"No, no," she cried; "it's not true, Willie, or you're not the man I loved. Go on, dear; go on. I shall hear about you. I shall watch you."
"But you'll be here—with him," he muttered in grim anger.
"Ah, Willie, are you still—still jealous? Even now?"