She drew herself out of his arms at last and waited, trembling and most unhappy. He had felt his way to the window to put the width of the room between them, and to quiet a little the tumult in his heart.
“Are you better now?” he said.
“Yes, but—don't you hate me?”
“I hate you? My God! I?”
“Isn't—isn't there anything I could do for you, then? I'll stay here in England to do it, if you like. Perhaps I could come and see you sometimes.”
“I think not, dear. It would be kindest not to see me any more, please. I don't want to seem rude, but—don't you think—perhaps you had almost better go now.”
He was conscious that he could not bear himself as a man if the strain continued much longer.
“I don't deserve anything else. I'll go, Dick. Oh, I'm so miserable.”
“Nonsense. You've nothing to worry about; I'd tell you if you had. Wait a moment, dear. I've got something to give you first. I meant it for you ever since this little trouble began. It's my Melancolia; she was a beauty when I last saw her. You can keep her for me, and if ever you're poor you can sell her. She's worth a few hundreds at any state of the market.” He groped among his canvases. “She's framed in black. Is this a black frame that I have my hand on? There she is. What do you think of her?”
He turned a scarred formless muddle of paint towards Maisie, and the eyes strained as though they would catch her wonder and surprise. One thing and one thing only could she do for him.