"No, I don't think I'm selfish," said Margery; "I want you to enjoy yourself. You're tired of me, and I don't blame you. But I won't hang on to you. That would be selfish if I did. I think I'll go now. Besides," she added, "I think you're in love with Mr. Grenfell."
Suddenly, as Margery said the words, Lois knew that it was true. She was in love, and for the first time in her life. A great exultation and happiness filled her; for the first time for many months she was simple and natural and good. Her masculinity fell from her, leaving her her true self.
She came over to Margery, knelt down by her side, put her arms around her and kissed her. Margery returned the kiss, but did not surrender herself. Her body was stiff and unyielding. She withdrew herself from Lois and got up.
"I'm glad," she said, her voice trembling a little. "I hope you'll be very happy."
Lois looked at her with anxious eyes.
"But this doesn't make any difference to us," she said. "We can be the same friends as before—more than we were. You'll like 'Tubby,' Margery darling, when you know him. We'll have a great time—we three."
"No," said Margery, "this doesn't make any difference. That's quite true. The difference was made before."
"What do you mean?" asked Lois, standing up, her agitation strangely returning.
"You've been different," said Margery. "Since we came back from France, you've been changing all the time. It seemed right out there, your ordering everybody about. I admired it. You were fine. But now in London—I've no right to say so. But you're trying to do all the things men do; and it's—it's—beastly, somehow. It doesn't suit you. It isn't natural. I don't believe the men like it either, or at any rate not the nice men. I suppose it's silly, but I don't admire you any more, and if I don't admire you, I can't love you." With that last word she was gone, and Lois knew quite well that she would never come back again.