"The man—to—has to be"
"Shame on you. Do you think I ask for a caged mate, a thing that slinks and fawns, and snuffles through the hypocritical bars? Why,—I'm working for your freedom, the worker's freedom, as well as my own."
Plead as he would Kit could not move her.
"There is something in a man you don't understand, dear."
"Ah,—the idea of permanence, of possession"
"Something more than that. It is unexplainable—somehow—sacred. Everything or nothing."
She looked at him steadily.
"You mean—that you won't go on?"
"I can't go on," he said. "For your sake,—I can't go on."
He was as sincere as she was, and as obstinate as she was ruthless, nor would either of them give way, and in the cool of the evening they faced the river and the parting of the ways. She stood in the punt with the pole in her hands, waiting to ferry him across. She had borne the struggle better than he had. His blue eyes looked tired in an unshaved and haggard face.
"Poor old Kit."
He stood in the punt and stared at the water as she poled across, all the greenness of the world withered, and the setting sun red with defeat.
"I'm sorry, Molly, more sorry than I can say. If I had known"
The punt touched the bank, and he stepped out.
"Never regret things that you cannot help, dear lad."
"It's not for myself"
"Give and take, give and take."
Leaning upon the pole she watched him walk away. At the end of the lane he paused and looked back as though he were taking leave of something, but he did not wave to her.
"No, my dear," she thought, "you shall not kill all that is best in us."
