“And I have scarcely seen her for a long time,” said Maisie. “I saw she did avoid it, and I suppose she thought it no use talking about it.”
“I did not need her explanation,” Despard went on gently. “I had—if you will have the word—I had forgiven you long before. Indeed, I think I did so almost at once. It was all natural on your part. What had I done, what was I that you should have thought any good of me? When you remembered the way I behaved to you at first,” and here his voice grew very low. “I have never been able to—I shall never be able to forgive myself—”
“Mr Norreys!” said Maisie in a very contrite tone. But Despard kept silence.
“Are you going to stay at home now, or are you going away again?” she asked presently, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact way.
“I hardly know. I am waiting to see what I can get to do. I don’t much mind what, but I shall never again be able to be idle,” he said, smiling a little for the first time. “It is my own fault entirely—the fault of my own past folly—that I am not now well on in the profession I was intended for. So I must not grumble if I have to take what work I can get in any part of the world. I would rather stay in England for some reasons.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I cannot stand heat very well,” he said. “My little sunstroke left some weak points—my eyes are not strong.”
She did not answer at once.
Then, “How crooked things are,” she said at last suddenly; “you want work, and I—oh, I am so busy and worried. Papa impressed upon me that I must look after things myself, and accept the responsibilities, but—I don’t think he quite saw how difficult it would be,” and her eyes filled with tears.
“But—” said Despard, puzzled by her manner, “he is surely able to help you?”