So he went through with it.
And now he made out that mercifully, incredibly, he was being let off.
He wouldn't have to go on.
He stood by Maisie's bed looking down at her as she lay there. She had grasped his hands by the wrists, as if to hold back their possible caress. And her little breathless voice went on, catching itself up and tripping.
"You won't mind—if I don't let you—come to me?"
"I'm sorry, Maisie. I didn't know you felt like that about it."
"I don't. It isn't because I don't love you. It's just my silly nerves.
I get frightened."
"I know. I know. It'll be all right. I won't bother you."
"Mother said I oughtn't to ask you. She said you wouldn't understand and it would be too hard for you. Will it?"
"No, of course it won't. I understand perfectly."
He tried to sound like one affectionately resigned, decently renouncing, not as though he felt this blessedness of relief, absolved from dread, mercifully and incredibly let off.