He looked for signs of shame and confusion on Maggie's face. But Maggie's face was one flame of joy. Her eyes were candid.
"Walking up and down," she said. "I was watching."
"Watching?"
"Your window."
"You mustn't, Maggie. You mustn't watch people's windows. They don't like it. It doesn't do."
The flame was troubled; but not the lucid candour of Maggie's eyes. "I had to. I thought you were ill. I came to make sure. I was all alone. I didn't let anybody see me. And when I saw the light I was frightened. And I came again the next night to see. I didn't think you'd mind. It's not as if I'd come to the front door, or written letters, was it?"
"No. But you must never do that again, mind. How did you know the house?"
Maggie hung her head. "I saw your little girl go in there."
"Were you 'watching'?"
"N-no. It was an accident."