Then suddenly Janey moved. An absolutely new impulse had seized her. She went over to the glass, and looked at herself in it. Then she smoothed her hair, arranged her gown, made it tidy at the waist, and buttoned it at the wrists. Quentin watched her in blank wonder—he had never before seen her pay the slightest heed to her appearance. But to-day she stood a full five minutes before the glass, patting, smoothing, arranging—settling every fold of her careless garments with minutest care. Then she turned to him.
"Good-bye, Quentin."
Her head was held high—one would scarcely know her in her sleekness and order.
"Janey—you forgive me."
She did not speak.
"Janey—for God's sake!—oh, please forgive me!—because I've suffered so much, because I've wanted you so, because I've struggled to find redemption...."
His eyes burned, full of entreaty. But at first she could not answer him. She moved slowly towards the door, but stopped on the threshold, and looked back at him, her heart hot and sick in her breast with pity. She had never realised Quentin's youth so absolutely and heartrendingly as to-day.
"I forgive you," she said, "but not for any of those reasons. I forgive you because you are—oh, God!—only a boy."