He reddened boyishly and fidgeted.
"Oh, it is best for you to go," he answered, uncomfortably.
"Paul! But why?"
"It 's—it 's not your place," he said, facing the difficulty of putting an elusive thought into words. "This country—people don't know what 's good and what 's bad—and there isn't enough people. Not like London. You should go to London again. Kamis was telling me—theaters and streets and pictures to see, and people everywhere. He says one end of London is just like you and the other end is like that Bailey. That is where you should go—London, not here. I will go to London soon, too."
"I see," said Margaret. "I was afraid at first that you were sick of me too, Paul. I needn't have been afraid of that, need I? Wouldn't it be fine if we could meet in London?"
"We can," said Paul seriously. "I have got a hundred and three pounds, and I will go."
"That's a good deal," said Margaret.
"It's a lot," he agreed. "My father gave it to me the other day, all tied up tight in a little dirty bundle, and there was my mother's marriage lines in it too. He said he didn't mean me to have those but the money was for me. It was on the table in the morning and he rolled it over to me and said: 'Here, Paul. Take this and don't bring any more of your tramps in the house.' That was because I brought that Bailey here, you know. So now—soon—I will go to London and Paris and make models there. Kamis says—"
"What?" asked Margaret.
"He says I will think my eyes have gone mad at first when I see London. He says that coming to Waterloo Station will be like dying and waking in another world. But he says too—blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God even in Waterloo Station."