"But why?" he managed. "Why?"
"Because that's the only way to stop people from talking. If they know that you're at Bruton Street, that I'm not at Bruton Street, then," she was faltering now, faltering in her firm purpose, and she knew that she must not falter; "then they'll think that your mother didn't know anything when she invited us to-night."
He came toward her: and she felt her momentary determination weaken; felt herself powerless to do the right. He put his hands on her shoulders, and looked her deep in the eyes. Then he smiled, the quaint, whimsical smile she loved best.
"You're not serious, Alie?"
"I am," she faltered, "desperately serious. You'll let me have my cottage, won't you?"
"You know I won't." He had her in his arms now. "You know that I won't consent to anything so absurd." He bent to kiss her. "Darling, don't let's lose our pluck. It's been a rotten evening for you. Rotten! I know that."
"It's not of myself that I'm thinking."
"I know that, too. I'm not thinking for myself, either. I'm trying to think for both of us, for all three of us. We've got to see this thing through. Together."
"Together!" The word weakened her still further.
"Yes, together." He followed up his advantage. "Life's a fight. A hard fight. You mustn't desert."