I shall see you both later,


I suppose so. An’ perhaps—one day—I s’ll be able to pay you back the money as—


I shall come for it, you’ll see. I s’ll be on the rocks before I’m very much older.


Ay—well—


Good-bye,


It’s a nasty day for travelling,


Yes,


It’s raining yet,


Is it?


You won’t go to-night, shall you? I shouldn’t go in this rain,


Do you want me to stay?


Do you want me, Baxter?


Do you want to come back to me?


Take me back! Take me back, take me back!


Do you want me again?


Then,


She’s dead. What was it all for—her struggle? You’re alive. She’s not. She is—in you. You’ve got to keep alive for her sake. You’ve got to carry forward her living, and what she had done, go on with it. But you can go on with your painting. Or else you can beget children. They both carry on her effort. Painting is not living. Then live. Marry whom? As best you can. Miriam? Mater, my dear—


I mustn’t,


I didn’t know—


Nor I. What are you doing in town?


I’m staying at Cousin Anne’s.


Ha! For long?


No; only till to-morrow.


Must you go straight home?


No, no; it’s not necessary.


You will just have supper with me, then I’ll bring you back.


Very well,


Aren’t they beautiful?


Yes. What will you drink—coffee?


I should like it,


Then excuse me a moment.


There’s nothing new in it, and nothing very interesting. H’m! I’d forgotten that. It’s not bad, is it?


No. I don’t quite understand it.


There’s some not bad stuff in there,


Not at all bad,


By the way, didn’t I hear something about your earning your own living?


Yes. And what of it? I’m merely going to the farming college at Broughton for three months, and I shall probably be kept on as a teacher there.


I say—that sounds all right for you! You always wanted to be independent.


Yes.


Why didn’t you tell me?


I only knew last week.


But I heard a month ago,


Yes; but nothing was settled then.


I should have thought, you’d have told me you were trying. I suppose you’re glad,


Very glad.


Yes—it will be something.


I think it will be a great deal. Why do you think it won’t?


Oh, I don’t think it won’t be a great deal. Only you’ll find earning your own living isn’t everything.


No. I don’t suppose it is.


I suppose work can be nearly everything to a man, though it isn’t to me. But a woman only works with a part of herself. The real and vital part is covered up.


But a man can give all himself to work?


Yes, practically.


And a woman only the unimportant part of herself?


That’s it.


Then, if it’s true, it’s a great shame.


It is. But I don’t know everything,


And how are things with you?


About all right,


Nay. And you have broken off with Clara?


Yes.


You know. I think we ought to be married.


Why?


See, how you waste yourself! You might be ill, you might die, and I never know—be no more then than if I had never known you.


And if we married?


At any rate, I could prevent you wasting yourself and being a prey to other women—like—like Clara.


A prey? I’m not sure, that marriage would be much good.


I only think of you,


I know you do. But—you love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered.


And what will you do otherwise?


I don’t know—go on, I suppose. Perhaps I shall soon go abroad.


Will you have me, to marry me?


Do you want it?


Not much,


And without marriage we can do nothing?


No. No, I think not.


I think I must go,


I’ll come along with you,


Have them!


Mother!


mother!