He hid his face in his hands. The pain she had inflicted would have been unbearable but for the light that was in him.
He rose to leave her. But before he left, he took one long, scrutinising look at her. It struck him that she was not, at the moment, entirely responsible for her utterances. And again his light helped him.
"Look here," said he, "I don't think you're feeling very well. This isn't exactly a joyous life for you."
"I want no other," said she.
"You don't know what you want. You're overstrained—frightfully—and you ought to have a long rest and a change. You're too good, you know, to my little sister. I've told you before that I won't allow you to sacrifice yourself to her. I shall get some one to come and stay, and I shall take you down this week to the south coast, or wherever you like to go. It'll do you all the good in the world to get away from this beastly place for a month or two."
"It'll do me no good to get away from poor Edie."
"It will, dearest, it will, really."
"It will not. If you go and take me away from Edie I shall get ill myself."
"You only think so because you're ill already."
"I am not ill." She turned to him her sombre, tragic face. "Walter—whatever you do, don't ask me to leave Edie, for I can't."