"I don't blame you for this—not a bit," said Jim, "and I never shall. Whatever you want I'll try and give you."
"O Jim, I can't marry you now," said Cicely, her head turned from him. "But you are very kind." She broke into tears again, more tempestuous than before. Her strength was nearly at an end.
"I've told you that I shan't worry you," Jim said. "But you mustn't marry this man without thinking about it. You must talk to your mother—she'll be heart-broken if you go away from her like this."
"Oh, does she want me back?" cried Cicely.
"Yes, she does. You must go up to Muriel now. She'll want you too. And you needn't go home till you want to."
"I shall never be able to go home again," she said.
Mackenzie threw his gloves on to the table. "Do you want to go home?" he asked her. His voice had lost that insistent quality. He spoke as if he was asking her whether she would like to take a walk, in a tone almost pleasant.
"I want to go away," she said doggedly.
"Then you may go," said Mackenzie, still in the same easy voice. "I wanted you, and if we had been in a country where men behave like men, I would have had you. But I see I'm up against the whole pudding weight of British respectability, and I own it's too strong for me. We could have shifted it together, but you're not the girl to go in with a man. I'll do without you."
"You had better come now, Cicely," said Dick.