"I want to. That's a reason, isn't it?" said she. She said it shyly, tentatively, solemnly almost, as if it were some point in an infant's metaphysics. There was no assurance in her tone, nothing to remind him that Maggie had been the spoiled child of pleasure whose wants were always reasons; nothing to suggest the perverted consciousness of power.
"Well—" He straightened himself stiffly for departure.
"Are you going?" she said.
"I must."
"Will you—come again?"
"Yes, I'll come, if you want me."
He saw again how piteous, how ill she looked. A pang of compassion went through him. And after the pang there came a warm, delicious tremor. It recalled the feeling he used to have when he did things for Edith, a sensation singularly sweet and singularly pure.
It was consolation in his misery to realise that any one could want him, even poor, perverted Maggie.
Maggie said nothing. But the flame rose in her face.
Downstairs Majendie found Mrs. Morse waiting for him at the door. "What's been the matter with her?" he asked.