When Marie got downstairs she found George restlessly pacing the hall. He stopped when he saw her, looked at her sadly, and held out his hand. She cast one rapid glance at him, and then, fixing her eyes on the floor, silently held out her hand to him. He stooped, kissed her glove, and then, having opened the door for her, she passed out, followed by him. 'Only my glove!' she thought. 'Only my glove!' As they turned out of Peter's Row he offered her his arm, and said,-- 'I want to have a quiet talk with you, Marie.' She said nothing. She looked down, counting the divisions in the flags as she passed. 'Only my glove,' she thought drearily; 'only my glove he kissed. More than a glove has come between his hand and mine--between his lips and mine. If he had put his arms round me in the hall and kissed me and said-"My own Marie!" I should have forgotten everything but that I was his. Now I do not know what to forget. In the old time I belonged to myself; of late I have belonged to him. Now he seems not to want me, and I do not want myself only for his sake. God help me, God help me! I am poorer than the worst-used wife in England. I would rather be used badly by him than that he should pass me by. If I cannot be happy with him there is but one thing else I could endure, and that is to be unhappy with him. God give me guidance and strength! If Thou wilt, give me my George's love back again!' They turned into Lincoln's Inn Fields. Not a word had been spoken the whole way from Peter's Row. As soon as they were out of the turmoil of Holborn, she said, without raising her eyes or her head,-- 'Have I annoyed you, George?' 'Hush, girl, no. Let me speak. I have asked you to give me a few minutes here, because I want you to grant me a great favour.' 'A favour!' she said to herself, with a joyous cry. 'A favour! George wants a favour of me! This lord of my life wants a favour of me! Oh, monstrous happiness, that he should want anything I can give! It must be my life he wants. It cannot be less than my life he wants; he could think of nothing else as a great favour. My life, or--or--yes, it may be that. It may be he is tired of me, and wants my ring back for another's finger! That would be more than my life, but nothing worth his taking. How incalculably rich love makes one! A month ago I had nothing more precious than my life; now I have love, a thousand times more precious than life. Of course I will give up my sweetheart for my love's sake. I will give him up as freely as I gave him my love. It will then be a dark and dreary world for me; but there will be one bright spot--the place where he dwells in happiness; one memory of intoxicating pain and sacrificial joy, that of the time when I gave him up to secure his happiness.' She raised her head and her left hand. Looking into his eyes for the first time, she said, in a tone of tender firmness,-- 'George, I know what it is. You have been hasty. You now find out you have been hasty. You are terribly distressed, because you think what you are going to ask will pain me. Is not what I say true?' 'There is something in it, Marie. But how could you have guessed?' he asked, in amazement. For a moment her lips moved, but no words came. Suddenly she turned deadly pale, her head dropped forward, and she tottered. He seized her round the waist, and whispered frantically,-- 'Marie, Marie, you are faint. Let me get you something. Cab, cab!' She raised her head slowly, and looked into his face with a sweet dim smile, saying feebly,-- 'No, George, please do not. I am all right. I only grew giddy for a moment. Don't call a cab. I am all right now.' 'But, Marie, what happened to you? You are looking wretched now. Do let me get a cab and take you home.' 'No, no, I am quite well now. It was only a passing giddiness. I feel all right. It will be better for me to walk and keep in the air.' She had divined truly. It was for his happiness she should never see him again. All the light had gone out of the world at once. All the days would be clouded for ever; all the months of the year would be Octobers. She resumed speaking,-- 'I was saying something a moment ago. I cannot recollect what it was about.' 'Marie, Marie, do not look in that way. Do not speak in that tone. My God, what have I done to this girl!' 'Oh yes, I remember now. I recollect it all, George. Dear George, you must not distress yourself about me, about any such trifle. I know, George, you do not look on a matter of this kind as a trifle. But it really is. You want me to give you this back, don't you?' She touched the third finger of her left hand, where, under the glove, lay his ring. 'No, no, no, Marie, not that! For mercy's sake, don't smile. I think my heart is breaking. I only want you to be merciful to me. I am in great difficulties and dangers which I cannot now explain to you.' 'I do not ask you to explain anything to me, George. I only ask you to tell me what I am to do. What you tell me to do I will do, for I know you are strong and wise and noble.' He looked at her for a moment with eyes of infinite tenderness. The smile which had pained him had faded from her face, and a light of enthusiastic loyalty gleamed in her eyes. What had he done, what was he doing--to win such a love and think of losing her now? She looked pale and anxious--she, his darling! Ah, it was hard on him. But there was nothing for it but to go on now. He said aloud,-- 'No, I do not want you to give me that ring back. I want you to keep it for awhile, anyway.' For awhile--for awhile! What could he mean by 'For awhile'? 'I want you, Marie, to give me a little time--a little time.' 'A little time!' she repeated, in dreary perplexity. 'What do you mean by a little time? You have been too hasty in giving me this ring. Take it back, and you will have all time.' 'You do not understand.' 'I do not want to understand, George. You say you want time. How can I give you more time than by returning you this ring, which will make matters exactly as if you had never said more to me than to any other girl you know? I feel I am not worthy of you.' 'Marie, Marie, for Heaven's sake do not say such a thing! You not worthy of me! Monstrous! Such a thought could enter the head of only a fool.' 'Then, George, I am no better than a fool. For I know and feel I am not worthy of you; and you even, with all your splendid, manly generosity, cannot but have found out--have already found out--how inferior I am to you.' 'Believe me, you are utterly mistaken. Such an idea as your not being good enough for me never crossed my mind--in fact, it could not enter my mind: and now even this denial of it seems affronting the respect I have felt for you. I feel I owe myself an apology for denying I ever felt anything of the kind. If anyone but you, Marie, had suggested such a possibility, I should simply laugh at him; I should not condescend to answer him seriously. It is about myself I feel uneasy; I do not think I am worthy of you.' 'Oh, George, you cannot be in earnest!' 'In bitter earnest. I do not think I am worthy of you; and I want you to give me a little time to find out, if I can--to satisfy myself, if I can--that I am worthy of you.' 'I cannot understand you, George--I cannot understand you. You are, I know, quite incapable of saying anything you have not good reason for saying; but I cannot understand you. I am quite content with you; why are not you content with yourself?' 'Marie, whatever happens between us, there must be no misunderstanding. Misunderstandings occur between only the vain and the foolish. When first I spoke of love to you, my belief was that when people like you and me agreed to love one another on earth, it was that they simply entered into an apprenticeship of eternal love.' 'I remember every word you have said to me--I have never forgotten one; and the words you speak of were the sweetest I had ever heard.' 'Suppose I have changed since then?' 'Changed in what?' 'In my idea of the carrying of our loves out of the world. Suppose I do not think we shall carry any memory out of this world--suppose I think the grave is the end of man? What then?' 'I am still unable to understand you. Make it plainer for me, George; you know I am only a dull woman. Tell me exactly what you mean?' 'Suppose I was to say, with Tennyson's "Lotus Eaters," "Death is the end of life," would you still marry me?' 'George, what difference would that make between you and me?' 'Don't you remember what you promised me when I put the ring on your finger under St Paul's?' 'Yes.' 'And would you, remembering what you then promised, marry me, even if I told you I no longer held the faith I then professed?' 'But, George, it is not so. You have not lost your faith. You are not serious; you are only trying me--George, you are only trying me. Tell me you are not serious, and let us be happy, George, as we were before.' 'I am not trying you, Marie. I am in sad earnest. I ask you, if I told you my opinions had changed, would you still marry me, in face of the promise you made me under St Paul's?' 'I would.'