"Well-known, then."
"Moderately well-known. That's all. But what's the point?"
"Well, that's the point," she replied. "You were only 'Quinny' before,
but now you're the moderately well-known novelist, and I'm afraid of
you...."
"Don't be absurd, Mary!"
"But I am, Quinny. I read a review of one of your books in some paper,
and it called you a very wise person, and said you knew a great deal
about human nature or something of that sort. Well, one feels rather
awful in the presence of a person like that. At least, I do!"
He felt that she was chaffing him, and he did not want to be chaffed by
her. He liked the "Quinny" and "Mary" attitude, and he wished that she
would forget that he had written "wise" books.
"You're making fun of me," he said.
"Oh, no, I'm not," she answered quickly. "I'm quite serious!"
He did not answer for a few moments. He could hear Rachel's passionate
voice saying, "They get seven shillings a week ... in theory. There are
fines ..." and he wondered why it was that she repelled him. Her
sincerity was palpable ... it was clear that she was hurt by the
miseries of factory girls ... but in spite of her sincerity, he felt
that he could not bear to be near her. "If she'd only talk of something
else," he thought ... and then returned to Mary.
"Do you remember that time at Boveyhayne?" he said.
"Which time?" she asked.
"The first time."
"Yes."
He swallowed and then went on. "Do you remember what I said to you ...
on the platform at Whitcombe?"
She spoke more quickly and loudly as she answered him. "Oh, yes," she
said, "we got engaged, didn't we? We _were_ kids!..."