He nodded.
"You've taken it on the chance that I'll come?"
"It's got to be completely furnished. If it wasn't you it would probably be some one I didn't care about half so much. But it's going to be you, isn't it, Maggy?"
"For three years!" Her voice trembled. "And after? What happens when the agreement's run out? Has the girl got to be like the flat—taken on by some one else? There was a play, wasn't there, a few years ago, called 'Love and What Then?' It didn't last long."
She got up and went back into the sitting room. Woolf followed her.
"Won't you trust me and come?"
"If I came I should come without trusting you. I'm not the kind that tiles herself in. I suppose I should let things rip."
"Well, it's yours for the taking. Only you've got to decide—now."
And suddenly Maggy's defenses broke down. She felt the frail bulwarks of her unsheltered girlhood crumbling around her.
"It wouldn't be for the bathroom or the bedroom or what you'd give me," she said huskily.