Mrs. Thompson. W. B. Maxwell

no—I should never find such another situation."

      "Then why are you discontented in this one?"

      With the permission conveyed by her question, he described at length his queer state of mind—a man on whom fortune had smiled, a man with work that he liked, yet feeling restless and unhappy, feeling alone in the midst of a crowd, longing for sympathy, yearning for companionship.

      "That's how I feel," he said sadly, after a long explanation.

      Mrs. Thompson had been looking away from him, staring across the river. She held herself rigidly erect, and she spoke now in another voice, with a tone of hardness and coldness.

      "I think I recognize the symptoms, Mr. Marsden. When a young man talks like this, the riddle is easy to guess."

      "Then guess it."

      "Well," she said coldly, "you force me to the only supposition. You are telling me that you have fallen in love."

      "Yes."

      She winced almost as if he had struck her; and then the parted lips closed, her whole face assumed a stonelike dignity.

      "Tell me all about it, Mr. Marsden—since you seem to wish to."

      "Love is a great crisis in a man's life. It generally makes him or breaks him forever."

      "I hope that fate will read kindly—in your case."

      "He either fears his fate too much or his deserts are small—But, Mrs. Thompson, I do fear my fate. It isn't plain-sailing for me. There are difficulties, barriers—it's all darkness before me."

      "I hope you haven't made an injudicious choice."

      "Yes, I have—in one way. Shall we sit down here? It is still very warm."

      It was as though the heated earth panted for breath; no evening breeze stirred the leaves; the air was heavy and languorous. Mrs. Thompson seemed glad to sit upon the Corporation bench. She sank down wearily, leaned her back against the wooden support, and stared at the darkly flowing water.

      "So difficult," he murmured. "So many difficulties." He looked behind him at the empty meadows, and up and down the empty path. Then he took off his hat, laid it on the seat beside him; and, bringing a silk handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped his forehead. "There are almost insurmountable barriers between us."

      "Have you given your heart to some married woman? Is she not free to respond to your affections?"

      "No, she was married, but she's free now.... And I think it amuses her to encourage me—and make me suffer." He had taken one of the hands that lay listlessly in the wide lap. "She is you."

      Mrs. Thompson snatched her hand away, sprang up from the seat, and spoke indignantly.

      "Mr. Marsden, have you gone out of your senses?"

      "Yes, I think I have. And who's to blame? Who's driven me out of them?" He was standing close in front of her, barring the path. "Oh, I can't go on with all this deception. I lied to you just now. I knew you were coming here,—and I followed you. I felt I must once for all be with you alone."

      "Not another word. I will not listen.... Oh!"

      Suddenly he had seized her. Roughly and fiercely he flung his arms round her, forced her to him, and kissed her.

      "Mr. Marsden!... Shame!... How dare you?... Let me go."

      She was struggling in his arms, her head down, her two hands trying to keep him off. Her broad bosom panted, her big shoulders heaved; but with remorseless brutal use of his strength he held her tightly and closely against him.

      "There," he said. "Don't fight. You'll have to go through it now.... You women think you can play the fool with a man—set all his blood on fire, and then tell him to behave himself."

      "Mr. Marsden, let me go—or I shall die of shame."

      "No you won't. Rot. D'you hear? Rot. You're a woman all through: and that face was made to be kissed—like this—like this.... There, this is my hour—"

      "Will you let me go?"

      "Yes, in a minute.... You'll dismiss me to-morrow, won't you? I'd better pack to-night. But I shall always go on loving you.... Oh, my goodness, what is my life to be without you?"

      And suddenly he released her, dropped upon the seat, and buried his face in his hands.

      She walked fast away—and then slowly returned. He was still sitting, with his head down, motionless.

      "Mr. Marsden!... You have insulted me in the most outrageous manner—and the only possible excuse would be the absolute sincerity of the feelings that you have expressed so brutally. If I could for a moment believe—"

      "Why can't you believe?"

      "Because it is too absurd. I am no longer young—the mother of a girl old enough herself to marry."

      "I don't want any pasty-faced girls. I want you."

      He spoke without looking up at her, and his face remained hidden by his hands.

      "If I sit down and talk to you quietly, will you promise that you won't begin again?"

      "Yes."

      "You give me your word of honour that you won't—won't touch me?"

      "Oh, yes," he said dejectedly, "I promise."

      "When you began just now, you implied—you accused me as if you thought I had been—encouraging you. But, Mr. Marsden, you must know that such an accusation is unjust and untrue."

      "Is it? I don't think you women much care how you lead people on."

      "But indeed I do care. I should be bitterly ashamed of myself if I was not certain that I had never given you the slightest encouragement."

      "Oh, never mind. What does it matter? I have made a fool of myself—that's all. Love blinds a man to plain facts."

      He had raised his head again, and was looking at her. They sat side by side, and the dusk began to envelope them so that their faces were white and vague.

      "At the first," he went on, "I could see that it was hopeless. If social position didn't interfere, the money would prove a barrier there'd be no getting round. You are rich, and I am poor. At the first I saw how unhappy it was going to make me. I saw it was hopeless—most of all, because I'm not a man who could consent to pose as the pensioner of a rich wife.... But then I forgot—and I began to hope. Yes, I did really hope."

      "What is it you hoped for?"

      "Why, that chance would turn up lucky—that somehow I might be put more on an equality. Or that you would marry me in spite of all—that you'd come to think money isn't everything in this world, and love counts most of all."

      "But, Mr. Marsden, how can I for one moment of time credit you with—with the love you will go on talking about?"

      "Haven't I shown it to you?"

      "I think—I am quite sure you are deceiving yourself. But nothing can deceive me. You mistake the chivalrous romantic feelings of youth for something far different."

      "No, I don't mistake."

      "The disparity in our years renders such a thing impossible. Between you and me, love—the real love—is out of the question."

      "Yes, you can say that easily—because no doubt it's true on your side. If you felt for me what I feel for you—then it would be another story."

      "But suppose I had been foolish enough to be taken with you, to let myself be carried away by your eloquence—which I believe was all acting!"

      "Acting? That's good—that's devilish good."

      "I say, suppose I had believed you—and yielded one day, don't