"I told you I'd never become a worry to you," he said humbly; "I've been trying to keep my word."
"You've been everything that is considerate; the fault is my own. I ought to have resigned the place the day after you spoke to me."
"I don't think that would have helped me much. You must understand that a change like that was the very last thing I wanted my love to effect."
At the word "love" the woman flinched a little, and he himself had not been void of sensation in uttering it. The sound of it was loud to both of them. But to her it added to the sense of awkwardness, while to the man it seemed to bring them nearer.
"It was very dense of me," he went on; "but with all the consequences of speaking to you that I foresaw I never took into account the one that has happened. I wondered if I was justified in asking you to give up a comfortable living for such a home as I could offer; I considered half a dozen things; but that I might be making the house unbearable to you I overlooked. Now, with your interest at heart all the time, I've injured you! I can't tell you how sorry I am to learn it."
"It's not unbearable," she said; "'unbearable' is much too strong. But I do see my duty, and I know the right thing is for me to go away; your mother would have you then as she ought to have you. While I stop, it can never be really free for either of you. And of course she knows!"
"Do you think she does?" he exclaimed.
"Are women blind? Of course she knows! And what can she feel towards me? It's only the affection she has for you that prevents her discharging me."
"Oh, don't!" he said. "'Discharging' you!"
"What am I? I'm only her servant. Don't blink facts, Dr. Kincaid; I'm your mother's companion, a woman you had never seen two years ago. It would have been a good deal better for you if you had never seen me at all!"