198 The Light That Failed Maisie watched him, and the fear went out of her heart, to be followed by a very bitter shame. He had spoken a truth that had been hidden from the girl through every step of the impetuous flight to London; for he was, indeed, down and done for — masterful no longer but rather a little abject; neither an artist stronger than she, nor a man to be looked up to — only some blind one that sat in a chair and seemed on the point of crying. She was immensely and unfeignedly sorry for him — more sorry than she had ever been for any one in her life, but not sorry enough to deny his words. So she stood still and felt ashamed and a little hurt, because she had honestly intended that her journey should end triumphantly; and now she was only filled with pity most startlingly distinct from love. “Well?” said Dick, his face steadily turned away. “I never meant to worry you any more. What’s the matter?” He was conscious that Maisie was catching her breath, but was as unprepared as herself for the torrent of emotion that followed. She had dropped into a chair and was sobbing with her face hidden in her hands. “IT can’t — I can’t!” she cried desperately. “Indeed, I can't. It isn’t my fault. I’m so sorry. Oh, Dickie, I’m sO sorry.” Dick’s shoulders straightened again, for the words lashed like a whip. Still the sobbing continued. It is not good to realize that you have failed in the hour of trial or flinched before the mere possibility of making sacrifices. “I do despise myself — indeed I do. But I can’t. Oh, Dickie, you wouldn’t ask me — would you?” wailed Maisie. She looked up for a minute, and by chance it happened that Dick’s eyes fell on hers. The unshaven face was very white and set, and the lips were trying to force