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When he told Emma the next day that he meant to marry Mary Conyngham, she turned suddenly white about the lips, and for once she was silent for a time before speaking. She must have seen that she had lost him forever, that she had lost even her grandchildren; but she had never yet surrendered weakly and she did not surrender now. She held her tongue, moved perhaps by the memory of Jason's, "You never learn anything, Em. You'd better leave the boy alone, if you ever expect to see him again."

She only said, "You might have waited a respectable time, so people wouldn't talk. Why, Naomi's hardly cold in her grave. You certainly don't owe her much, but. . . ."

"No one need know. We're going away. We'll keep it a secret if you like."

She softened a little. "Why couldn't you wait a little time?" (Mary might die or he might grow tired of her, if he would only wait.)

He looked at her steadily. "I've waited too long already, years too long."

"And now that your Pa's going back to Australia for a time, I'll be alone . . . I won't have anybody. It's hard when you're beginning to be old to find your life hasn't come to anything . . . all the struggle gone for nothing."

He saw that she was beginning to "work herself up" in the old fashion that she always used as a last resort. He knew the signs, and he didn't care any longer. She couldn't touch him that way. The trick had worn itself out, and he saw her with a strange, cruel clarity.