“No—I’ll keep it on. I can’t stop long. Father’s waiting for me at Barline.”
“It’s good of you to come—there’s something I’ve got to say.”
“You want to tell me we must end it.”
He had not expected her to help him so quickly. Then he suddenly realised that his letter had probably told her a lot—his trouble must have crept between the lines—into the lines ... he wasn’t good at hiding things.
“Oh, Stella.”
He stood a few paces from her, and noticed—now that his thoughts were less furiously concentrated on himself—that she was white, that all the warm, rich colour in her cheeks was gone. He pulled forward one of the office chairs, and she sank into it. He sat down opposite her, and took her hand, which she did not withdraw.
“Oh, Stella, my darling ... my precious child ... it’s all no use. I’ve hoped and I’ve tried, but it’s no good—I must let you go.”
“Why?”
The word came almost sharply—she wasn’t going to help him, then, so much.
“Darling, I know I’m a cad. I ought never to have told you I loved you, knowing that ... at least when Hugh died I should have told you straight out how things were. But I couldn’t—I let myself drift, hoping matters would improve ... and then there was the war....”