"Of course—I knew you would, Jimmy," she replied.
"I'm not going to apologise—or make excuses——"
"Oh—please!" She held out hands of entreaty towards him.
"Things went all wrong with me; they'd have been worse but for you. I don't know what you found me like"—the words were hard to say, but he spoke them doggedly—"I only know how you left me. And I've done lots of work—good work, too—since then, Moira."
"Oh, I'm glad," she said shyly. "And I didn't do anything—not any more than another might have done."
He paced up and down the room for a moment or two, with bent head; then began to talk as though he had some difficulty in saying what he had determined to say—as though it were forced from him in a measure. She stood straight and slim and tall, looking at him; for a time, after he had finished speaking, she did not reply.
"The new play's all right, I believe; at any rate my man says so, and backs his opinion with money. Things seem to be going better with me—since—since you came to me. It's been a bit of a muddle, I know, old lady; but I like to treat people as people treat me; and you've been the one that has behaved well to me—the only one that hasn't deserted me. The pity and the tragedy of it is that you and I are just two lonely people—not loving anyone very much—and yet forced to remain lonely. I've been thinking about it rather carefully, Moira, from a practical common-sense point of view, and I don't see why we shouldn't cheat Fate, in a manner of speaking, and come together. I'm not speaking on the impulse of the moment. I'm simply saying what I've thought about very carefully. We're married; you're Mrs. James Larrance; and I've no doubt the child is a sweet little thing; we'll bring her up nicely. There'll be plenty of money, and we shall live where you like. What do you think of it?"
"No, Jimmy," she said at last; and he thought he had never heard her speak in so quietly determined a voice before. "When you kept faith with Charlie, and saved me and the child from shame, I asked nothing of you—not even money—nothing but just the name the world demands. You gave me that; I have blessed you on my knees many and many a time; but I want nothing more. I helped you a little, perhaps, as I might have helped any other dear friend; but I will not go even to your arms, Jimmy, for pity. You do not love me; the thing would be a mockery. We can at least keep our self-respect, each of us; in the years that are coming we can look at each other with friendly eyes, and live our own lives—apart. I speak with no bitterness, Jimmy dear! in my heart I am very, very grateful. But I will live with my child alone."
"Of course I understand that anyone of so strong a nature as you must find it hard to forget the—the other man—the man who should have been your husband," he said. He waited for a moment, as though expecting her to reply; but she said nothing. "At the same time," he went on, "I am bound to say that I think you are wrong. For your own sake, and for the sake of the child, you ought to establish yourself properly. If I'm ready to give up all sorts of dreams and things, surely you should be willing to meet me half way."
She shook her head, although she smiled at him. "We will not discuss it, Jimmy; my mind is firmly made up," she replied.