"Oh, I know, you have no morality—hardly any man has. Anyhow it has nothing to do with that.... I want to know what to do now."
"Well, I don't see what you can do."
They had spoken in calm neutral tones and now were silent again. Lavery watched Mary; her face was intent, slightly frowning, baffled. He reflected that she had a concrete sort of mind, abstract questions, problems of character or conduct, did not interest her, she wanted to "do something." And really now, what could she do about this situation?
"You see," he said slowly, "things are changed now. Your being there—right there in the house—don't you see? I think, when he gets well, Laurence will want to break away for good and all from there. Of course she'd be looked after, materially, that's only right. And she'd probably have a chance to settle in life, it would be better, in the long run, for her.... I'm sort of taking it for granted," he added gravely, "that you want Laurence back."
Mary's face was an expressionless mask; lowered eyelids hid her eyes.
"I guess you want him back, and you don't want any other woman round. I sort of think you're human, after all."
"I'm afraid to say," she murmured.
"What? How?"
"I'm afraid.... It seems, I mustn't want anything now, I mustn't count on anything.... I must try to do right, to make up what I can, in any case, whether Laurence—" Suddenly she turned and cowered against Lavery, hiding her face on his shoulder, clutching his arm. "I'm afraid—I'm afraid!"