“Yes, I think so. You see, it depends rather—”
“It depends on what?”
“Oh, on a lot of things—on your sincerity; on your—your purity. It depends so much on that that it frightens you, lest, perhaps, you mightn’t, after all, be so very pure.”
Milly smiled again a little differently. “Darling, if that’s all, I’m not frightened. Only—supposing—supposing you gave out? You might, you know.”
“I might. But It couldn’t. You mustn’t think it’s me, Milly. Because if anything happened to me, if I did give out, don’t you see how it would let him down? It’s as bad as thinking it’s the place.”
“Does it matter what it is—or who it is,” said Milly passionately; “as long as—” Her tears came and stopped her.
Agatha divined the source of Milly’s passion.
“Then you don’t mind, Milly? You’ll let me go on?” Milly rose; she turned abruptly, holding her head high, so that she might not spill her tears.
Agatha went with her over the grey field towards the farm. They paused at the gate. Milly spoke.
“Are you sure?” she said.