106 The Light That Failed Maisie looked at the lamps, the fog, and the hideous turmoil. Dick was right; but horseflesh did not make for Art as she understood it. “You’re very nice sometimes, but you're very foolish more times. I’m not going to let you give me horses, or take you out of your way tonight. I’'ll go home by myself. Only I want you to promise me something. You won’t think any more about that extra three pence, will you? Remember, you’ve been paid; and I won't allow you to be spiteful and do bad work for a little thing like that. You can be so big that you mustn’t be tiny.” This was turning the tables with a vengeance. There remained only to put Maisie into her hansom. “Good-bye,” she said simply. “You'll come on Sunday. It has been a beautiful day, Dick. Why can’t it be like this always?” “Because love’s like line-work: you must go forward or backward; you can’t stand still. By the way, go on with your line-work. Good-night, and, for my — for my sake, take care of yourself.” He turned to walk home, meditating. The day had brought him nothing that he hoped for, but — surely this was worth many days — it had brought him nearer to Maisie. The end was only a question of time now, and the prize well worth the waiting. By instinct, once more, he turned to the river. “And she understood at once,” he said, looking at the water. “She found out my pet besetting sin on the spot, and paid it off. My God, how she understood! And she said I was better than she was! Better than she was!” He laughed at the absurdity of the notion. “I wonder if girls guess at one-half a man’s life. They can’t, or — they wouldn’t marry us.” He took her gift out of his pocket, and considered it in the light of a miracle and a pledge of the comprehension that, one day,