"No," said Meg, firmly; "there you're wrong. I'm not a babe ... I knew what I was doing; but up to to-day it seemed worth it ... I never seemed to see till to-day how it would hurt other people. Even if he grew tired of me—and I had faced that—there would have been some awfully happy months ... and so long as it was only me, it didn't seem to matter. And when you've had rather a mouldy life...."
"It can never be a case of 'only me.' As society is constituted, other people are always involved."
"Yet there was Marian Evans ... he told me about her ... she did it, and everyone came round to think it was very fine of her really. She wrote, or something, didn't she?"
"She did," said Anthony, "and in several other respects her case was not at all analogous to yours. She was a middle-aged woman—you are a child...."
"Perhaps, but I'm not an ignorant child...."
"Oh, Meg!" Anthony protested.
"I daresay about books and things I am, but I mean I haven't been wrapped in cotton-wool, and taken care of all my life, like Jan and Fay ... I know about things. Oh dear, oh dear, will you forbid Jan ever to speak to me again?"
"Jan!" Anthony repeated. "Jan! Why, she's the person of all others we want. We'll do nothing till she's here. Let's get her." And he pushed back his chair and rushed to the bell.
Meg rushed after him: "You'll let her see me? You'll let her talk to me? Oh, are you sure?"
The little hands clutched his arm, her ravaged, wistful face was raised imploringly to his.