I + 

Valérie stared at Stephen in amazement: “But⁠ ⁠… it’s such an extraordinary thing you’re asking! Are you sure you’re right to take such a step? For myself I care nothing; why should I care? If you want to pretend that you’re my lover, well, my dear, to be quite frank, I wish it were true⁠—I feel certain you’d make a most charming lover. All the same,” and now her voice sounded anxious, “this is not a thing to be done lightly, Stephen. Aren’t you being absurdly self-sacrificing? You can give the girl a very great deal.” + 

Stephen shook her head: “I can’t give her protection or happiness, and yet she won’t leave me. There’s only one way⁠ ⁠…” + 

Then Valérie Seymour, who had always shunned tragedy like the plague, flared out in something very like temper: “Protection! Protection! I’m sick of the word. Let her do without it; aren’t you enough for her? Good heavens, you’re worth twenty Mary Llewellyns! Stephen, think it over before you decide⁠—it seems mad to me. For God’s sake keep the girl, and get what happiness you can out of life.” + 

“No, I can’t do that,” said Stephen dully. + 

Valérie got up: “Being what you are, I suppose you can’t⁠—you were made for a martyr! Very well, I agree”; she finished abruptly, “though of all the curious situations that I’ve ever been in, this one beats the lot!” + 

That night Stephen wrote to Martin Hallam. + 