"I see," she said bravely. "I was wretchedly selfish. But remember, won't you, when you're fighting this great battle against all those odds, and saying all those lovely things to the Indians, and getting their confidence, and just showing all those other people how stupid they are, that _I_ didn't stop you, dear! I know it would be beastly of me to stop you! I shouldn't be worthy of you.... But I think you ought to appoint a Committee or something, and have the meetings reported in the 'Novum,' and I'm sure Cosimo wouldn't grudge the money. Oh, how I wish I could help!----" But he did not say, as she had half hoped he would say, that she did help, by inspiring. Instead, he held out his hand. As she took it in both of hers she wondered what she ought to do with it. If it had been his foot, and he had been the old-fashioned sort of knight, she could have fastened a spur on it. Or she might have belted a sword about his waist. But to have filled his fountain-pen, which was his real weapon, would have been rather stupid.... He was leading her, ever so sympathetically, to the door. He opened it, took from it the notice that had kept Mr. Prang away, and stood with her on the landing. "Good-bye," she said. He glanced over his shoulder, and then almost hurt her hands, he gripped them so hard. "Good-bye," he said, his eyes looking into hers. "You _do_ understand, don't you, Amory?" "Yes, Edgar." Even then he seemed loth to part from her. He accompanied her to the top of the stairs.--"You'll let me know when you're coming again, won't you?" he asked. "Yes. Good-bye." And she tore herself away. At the first turning of the stairs Amory stood aside to allow a rather untidy young woman to pass. This young woman had a long bare neck that reminded Amory of an artist's model, and her hands were thrust into the fore-pockets of a brown knitted coat. She was whistling, but she stopped when she saw Amory. "Do you know whether Mr. Dickinson, the poster artist, is up here?" she asked. "The next floor, I think," Amory replied. "Thanks," said the girl, and passed up. IV THE OUTSIDERS "No, not this week," Dorothy said. "Dot wrote a fortnight ago. This one's from Mollie. (You remember Mollie, Katie? She came to that funny little place we had on Cheyne Walk once, but of course she was only about twelve then. She's nearly nineteen now, and _so_ tall! They've just gone to Kohat).--Shall I read it, auntie?" And she read:--