VI + 

But Mary Llewellyn was no coward and no weakling, and one night, at long last, pride came to her rescue. She said: “I want to speak to you, Stephen.” + 

“Not now, it’s so late⁠—tomorrow morning.” + 

“No, now.” And she followed Stephen into her bedroom. + 

For a moment they avoided each other’s eyes, then Mary began to talk rather fast: “I can’t stay. It’s all been a heartbreaking mistake. I thought you wanted me because you cared. I thought⁠—oh, I don’t know what I thought⁠—but I won’t accept your charity, Stephen, not now that you’ve grown to hate me like this⁠—I’m going back home to England. I forced myself on you, I asked you to take me. I must have been mad; you just took me out of pity; you thought that I was ill and you felt sorry for me. Well, now I’m not ill and not mad any more, and I’m going. Every time I come near you you shrink or push me away as though I repelled you. But I want us to part quickly because.⁠ ⁠…” Her voice broke: “because it torments me to be always with you and to feel that you’ve literally grown to hate me. I can’t stand it; I’d rather not see you, Stephen.” + 

Stephen stared at her, white and aghast. Then all in a moment the restraint of years was shattered as though by some mighty convulsion. She remembered nothing, was conscious of nothing except that the creature she loved was going. + 

“You child,” she gasped, “you don’t understand, you can’t understand⁠—God help me, I love you!” And now she had the girl in her arms and was kissing her eyes and her mouth: “Mary⁠ ⁠… Mary.⁠ ⁠…” + 

They stood there lost to all sense of time, to all sense of reason, to all things save each other, in the grip of what can be one of the most relentless of all the human emotions. + 

Then Stephen’s arms suddenly fell to her sides: “Stop, stop for God’s sake⁠—you’ve got to listen.” + 

Oh, but now she must pay to the uttermost farthing for the madness that had left those words unspoken⁠—even as her father had paid before her. With Mary’s kisses still hot on her lips, she must pay and pay unto the uttermost farthing. And because of an anguish that seemed past endurance, she spoke roughly; the words when they came were cruel. She spared neither the girl who must listen to them, nor herself who must force her to stand there and listen. + 

“Have you understood? Do you realize now what it’s going to mean if you give yourself to me?” Then she stopped abruptly⁠ ⁠… Mary was crying. + 

Stephen said, and her voice had grown quite toneless: “It’s too much to ask⁠—you’re right, it’s too much. I had to tell you⁠—forgive me, Mary.” + 

But Mary turned on her with very bright eyes: “You can say that⁠—you, who talk about loving! What do I care for all you’ve told me? What do I care for the world’s opinion? What do I care for anything but you, and you just as you are⁠—as you are, I love you! Do you think I’m crying because of what you’ve told me? I’m crying because of your dear, scarred face⁠ ⁠… the misery on it.⁠ ⁠… Can’t you understand that all that I am belongs to you, Stephen?” + 

Stephen bent down and kissed Mary’s hands very humbly, for now she could find no words any more⁠ ⁠… and that night they were not divided. + 