“Oh, it isn’t the life,” she said. “The _life’s_ worth living--more worth living than it is here.... But there’s something more than mere life. There’s--you might call it the overtone of life--the something that’s more than the mere living. It’s the what gives softness to our existence that they haven’t got. It’s the ... That’s it! It’s knowing one’s place; it’s feeling that one’s part of a tradition, a link in the chain. And oh ...” she burst out, “I didn’t want to talk about it. But it used to come over me like a fearful doubt--the thought that I, too, might be growing into a creature without a place. That’s why it’s heaven to be back,” she ended. She looked down the valley with her eyes half closed, she leant a little on his arm. “It’s heaven, heaven!” she repeated in a whisper. “You were afraid,” he said, “that we shouldn’t keep a place for you--Ellida, and I, and all of us?” “Perhaps that was all it was,” she dropped her voice to say. He pressed with his arm her hand against his heart. “Oh,” he said, “it isn’t only the old place we want you to go into. There’s a new one. You’ve heard that I’ve been taking up your character?” “Ah,” she said; and again she was on the alert in an instant. “I’m to have a situation with you? Who’s the invalid? Peter?” The little dog with the flapping ears was running wide on the turf, scenting the unaccustomed grasses. “Oh, Peter’s as near speaking as he can ever get,” Grimshaw said. Katya laughed. “That would be a solution,” she said, “if you took me on as Peter’s nurse. But who’s your dumb child now? I suppose it’s your friend ... ah! ... Dudley Leicester.” “You remember,” Grimshaw said, “you used always to say he was like Peter.” “No; it was you I used to say were like Peter. W ell, what’s the matter with Dudley Leicester? ... at least. No. Don’t tell me. I’ve heard a good deal from Ellida. She’s gone clean mad about his wife.” “Yes; she’s mad enough about Pauline,” Grimshaw said, “and so would you be.” “I dare say,” she answered. “She seems brave. That’s always a good deal.” “Oh, if you want braveness!” Grimshaw said. “But how can you consider his case if you won’t hear about him?” “I’ve had _one_ version,” she said. “I don’t want two. It would obscure my view. What we know is that he sits about speechless, and that he asks strangers in the street a question about a telephone. That’s right, isn’t it?” “What an admirable professional manner you’ve got!” Grimshaw said; and he disengaged her hand from his arm to look better at her. “It’s quite right about poor Dudley.” “Well,” she said, “don’t be silly for a moment. This is my work in life--you know you don’t look over-well yourself--but answer me one question. I’m content to take Ellida’s version about him, because she can’t influence my views. _You_ might. And one wants to look only from personal observation. But ...” She stretched out her hand and felt his pulse for a light minute.