"Oh dear—" said Maggie, surprised at herself, as she began to cry again.
She pressed the little muslin handkerchief to her eyes; not making a show of her grief; but furtive, rather, and ashamed.
And Majendie took in all the pitifulness of her sweet, predestined nature. Pretty Maggie could never have been led astray; she had gone out, fervent and swift, dream-drunk, to meet her destiny. She was a creature of ardours, of tenderness, and of some perverse instinct that it would be crude to call depravity. Where her heart led, her flesh, he judged, had followed; that was all. Her brain had been passive in her sad affairs. Maggie had never schemed, or calculated, or deliberated. She had only felt.
"See here," he said. "Charlie can't marry you. He can't marry anybody."
"Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, he's too poor."
"I know he's poor."
"And you wouldn't be happy if he did marry you. He couldn't make you happy."
"I'd be unhappy, then."
"Yes. And he'd be unhappy, too. Is that what you want?"