She put down her pen and looked into his eyes: ‘Well, Martin, what is it?’ But she knew already.
He answered her very simply: ‘It’s Mary.’ Then he said: ‘I’m going because I’m your friend and I love her . . . I must go because of our friendship, and because I think Mary’s grown to care for me.’
He thought Mary cared . . . Stephen got up slowly, and all of a sudden she was no more herself but the whole of her kind out to combat this man, out to vindicate their right to possess, out to prove that their courage was unshakable, that they neither admitted of nor feared any rival.
She said coldly: ‘If you’re going because of me, because you imagine that I’m frightened—then stay. I assure you I’m not in the least afraid; here and now I defy you to take her from me!’ And even as she said this she marvelled at herself, for she was afraid, terribly afraid of Martin.
He flushed at the quiet contempt in her voice, which roused all the combative manhood in him: ‘You think that Mary doesn’t love me, but you’re wrong.’
‘Very well then, prove that I’m wrong!’ she told him.
They stared at each other in bitter hostility for a moment, then Stephen said more gently: ‘You don’t mean to insult me by what you propose, but I won’t consent to your going, Martin. You think that I can’t hold the woman I love against you, because you’ve got an advantage over me and over the whole of my kind. I accept that challenge—I must accept it if I’m to remain at all worthy of Mary.’
He bowed his head: ‘It must be as you wish.’ Then he suddenly began to talk rather quickly: ‘Stephen, listen, I hate what I’m going to say, but by God, it’s got to be said to you somehow! You’re courageous and fine and you mean to make good, but life with you is spiritually murdering Mary. Can’t you see it? Can’t you realize that she needs all the things that it’s not in your power to give her? Children, protection, friends whom she can respect and who’ll respect her—don’t you realize this, Stephen? A few may survive such relationships as yours, but Mary Llewellyn won’t be among them. She’s not strong enough to fight the whole world, to stand up against persecution and insult; it will drive her down, it’s begun to already—already she’s been forced to turn to people like Wanda. I know what I’m saying, I’ve seen the thing—the bars, the drinking, the pitiful defiance, the horrible, useless wastage of lives—well, I tell you it’s spiritual murder for Mary. I’d have gone away because you’re my friend, but before I went I’d have said all this to you; I’d have begged and implored you to set Mary free if you love her. I’d have gone on my knees to you, Stephen . . .’
He paused, and she heard herself saying quite calmly: ‘You don’t understand, I have faith in my writing, great faith; some day I shall climb to the top and that will compel the world to accept me for what I am. It’s a matter of time, but I mean to succeed for Mary’s sake.’
‘God pity you!’ he suddenly blurted out. ‘Your triumph, if it comes, will come too late for Mary.’