Mary-Clare was spared much of what Kathryn was creating because she was so far away--so far, far away from the true significance of it all. She was seeing Northrup as Kathryn had never seen him; would never see him. She realized his danger. It was all so sudden and revolting. Only recently had she imagined his past, his environment; she had taken him as a wonderful experience in her barren, sterile life, but now she considered him as threatened from an unsuspected source. A natural revulsion from the type that Kathryn Morris represented for a moment oppressed her, but she dared not think of that nor of her own right to resent the hateful slurs cast upon her. She must do what she could for Northrup--do it more or less blindly, crudely, but she must go as she saw light and was given time. "You are terribly wrong about--everything." Mary-Clare spoke quietly but her words cut like bits of hail. "If you are going, as you say, to be Mr. Northrup's wife, you must try and believe what I am saying now for your own sake, but more for his." Kathryn tried to say "Insolence!" but could not; she merely sat back in her chair and flashed an angry glance that Mary-Clare did not heed. "Mr. Northrup is writing a beautiful book. The book is himself. He does not realize how much it is----" "Indeed!" Kathryn did utter the one word, then added: "I suppose he's read it to you?" "Yes, he has." "Here, I suppose? By the fire, alone with you?" "No, under the trees, out there." Mary-Clare turned and glanced at the pure, open woods. "It is a beautiful book," she repeated. "Oh! go on, do! Really this is too utterly ridiculous." Kathryn laughed impatiently. "We'll take for granted the beauty of the book." "No, I cannot go on. You would not understand. It does not matter. What I want you to know is this--he could not do an ugly, low thing. If you wrong him there, you will never be forgiven, for it would hurt the soul of him; the part of him that no one--not even you who will be his wife--has a right to hurt or touch. You must make him _believe_ in women. Oh! I wish I could make you see--that was the matter with his beautiful book--I can understand now. He did not know women; but if you believe what I am saying, all will be right; you can make him know the truth. I can imagine how you might think wrong--it never occurred to me before--the woods, the loneliness, all the rest, but, because everything has been right, it makes him all the finer. You do believe me! You must! Tell me that you do!" Mary-Clare was desperate. It was like trying to save someone from a flood that was carrying him to the rapids. The unreality of the situation alone made anything possible, but Kathryn suddenly reduced the matter to the deadly commonplace.