The girl in the doorway in some stupefying fashion represented the "Fight" and the "Puddle" of Northrup's adventure. If Kathryn thought at all, it was to the effect that she had known from start to finish the whole miserable business, and she acted upon this unconscious conclusion with never a doubt in her mind. The two women, in silence, stared at each other for one of those moments that can never be measured by rule. During the palpitating silence they were driven together, while yet separated by a great space. Kathryn's conclusion drove her on the rocks; Mary-Clare's startled her into a state of clear vision. She recovered her poise first. She smiled her perturbing smile; she came in and sat down and said quietly: "I was surprised. I am still." Kathryn felt a wave of moral repugnance rise to her assistance. The clothes might disguise the real state of affairs--but the voice betrayed much. This was no crude country girl; here was something rather more difficult to handle; one need not be pitiful and condoning; one must not flinch. "You expected, I suppose, to find Mr. Northrup?" When Kathryn was deeply moved she spoke out of the corner of her mouth. It was an unpleasant trick--her lips became hard and twisted. "Oh! no, I did not, nor anyone else." The name seemed to hurt and Mary-Clare leaned back. "May I ask who you are?" she said. Mary-Clare was indignant at she hardly knew what; hurt, too, by what was steadying her. She knew beyond doubt that the woman near her was one of Northrup's world! "I am Miss Morris. I am engaged to be married to Mr. Northrup." It were better to cut deep while cutting, and Kathryn's nerve was now set to her task. She unrelentingly eyed her victim. She went on: "I can see how this must shock you. I sent my car on to the inn. I wanted a walk and--well! I came upon this place. Fate is such a strange thing." Kathryn ran her words along rather wildly. The silence of her companion, the calm way in which she was regarding her, were having an unpleasant effect. When Kathryn became aware of her own voice she was apt to talk too much--she grew confidential. "Mr. Northrup's mother is ill. She needs him. The way I have known all this right along is simply a miracle." How much more Kathryn might have said she was never to know, for Mary-Clare raised a hand as though to stay the inane torrent. "What can you possibly mean," she asked, and her eyes darkened, "by knowing _this_ all along? I do not understand--what have you known?" Then Kathryn sank in a morass. "Oh! do be sensible," she said, and her voice was hard and cold. "You must see I have found you out--why pretend? When a man like Mr. Northrup leaves home and forgets his duties--does not even write, buries himself in such a place as this and stays on--what does it mean? What can it possibly mean?"