"Aunt Anne, I'm going away to-morrow," said Maggie.
"To-morrow!" Aunt Anne looked up with her strange hostile arrogance. "Oh no, Maggie. You're not well yet."
"Mrs. Mark," said Maggie, "the lady I told you about, is coming in a motor to fetch me. She will take me straight to her house, and then I shall go to bed."
Aunt Anne said nothing.
"You know that it's better for me to go," said Maggie. "We can't live together any more after what happened. You and Aunt Elizabeth have been very very good to me, but you know now that I'm a disappointment. I haven't ever fitted into the life here. I never shall."
"The life here is over," said Aunt Anne. "Everything is over—the house is dead. Of course you must go. If you feel anger with me now or afterwards remember that I have lost every hope or desire I ever had. I don't want your pity. I want no one's pity. I wanted once your affection, but I wanted it on my own terms. That was wrong. I do not want your affection any longer; you were never the girl I thought you. You're a strange girl, Maggie, and you will have, I am afraid, a very unhappy life."
"No, I will not," said Maggie. "I will have a happy life."
"That is for God to say," said Aunt Anne.
"No, it is not," said Maggie. "I can make my own happiness. God can't touch it, if I don't let Him."
"Maggie, you're blasphemous," said Aunt Anne, but not in anger.