She nodded her head. "There is nothing else to do." She was tired of Montague Street, tired of her child, tired of Godfrey, tired of herself—above all, tired of being poor. "There is nothing else to do," she repeated, "is there? As you say, it is best to face facts. People would talk a little at first, no doubt, but they would soon get used to it. You see we can marry afterwards. That will make it all right."
George could only think of himself as a rabbit caught in a trap. He had nibbled the lettuce, and now he felt the iron teeth.
"We—perhaps we ought not to forget—everybody, Godfrey and your mother—"
"We must not judge them by our selves. They have not so much feeling as we have, you must remember. Besides, Godfrey could get damages."
George started as though he had been stung.
"Damages! Oh! he would never get damages."
"Husbands always do, dear," she said, sweetly.
Then she pointed to the window. "See the rain!" she cried. "It will not be like this in Italy."
Then she put one of her arms round his neck and leaned her head against his breast. She looked, somehow, simple enough and rather piteous. She was a little woman—he towered above her, and she had said that she loved him. He felt like a pillar of strength. Could he be harsh to a clinging, pathetic creature, with long eye-lashes? He put aside any consideration as to his loving her, and resolved to make the best of it.
"You will be kind to me, George," she whispered. "Remember that I am giving up everything for you!"
