"You clear out and get back to your parson," he said. "You must see from what I've told you it isn't any good your staying. I've no money. My health's gone all to billyoh! I don't want to get better. Why should I? Perhaps I did love you a little bit—once—in a queer way, but that's all gone now. I don't love any one on this earth. I just want to get rid of this almighty confusion going on in my head. I can't rest for it. I'd finish myself off if I had pluck enough. I just haven't."
"Martin," she said, "why did you write all those letters to me?"
"What letters?" he asked.
"Those that Amy stopped—the ones from abroad."
"Oh, I don't know," he looked away from her. "I was a bit lonely, I suppose."
"Tell me another thing," she said. "These weeks I've been here have I bored you?"
"I've been too ill to tell ... How do I know? Well, no, you haven't. You're such a queer kid. You're different from any other human—utterly different. No, you haven't bored me—but don't think from that I like having you here. I don't—you remind me of the old life. I don't want to think of it more than I must. You'll admit I've been trying to scare you stiff in all I've told you, and I haven't scared you. It's true, most of it, but it isn't so damned sensational as I've tried to make it ... But, all the same, what's the use of your staying? I don't love you, and I'm never likely to. I've told you long ago you're not the sort of woman to attract me physically. You never did. You're more like a boy. Why should you ruin your own life when there's nothing to gain by it? You will ruin it, you know, staying on here with me. Every one thinks we're living together. Have you heard from your parson?"
"Yes," said Maggie.
"What does he say?"
"He says I've got to go back at once."