"I don't think you need," rejoined Philippa with a little smile, "the poor man is quite penitent enough already. And, indeed, although he had something to do with it at first, he has nothing to do with it now. He took much the same line as you do when it came to the question of marriage, but I explained to him that it was my affair, and no one else's. Marion, it is not as if I was a child. I am of an age to decide for myself. And, of course, the doctor was only thinking of me. He knows well enough that it is the best possible thing for Francis. Don't look so dreadfully unhappy!" she said in a lighter tone, for Marion's pretty round face was flushed and drawn and her eyes were full of tears. "Dear," she added affectionately, "if you knew how happy I was, I think you would rejoice, and not be so full of dismal forebodings. I love him and he loves me, and nothing else matters." Marion's face paled. It was an effort to speak the words which had been on her lips for some moments, for to her it seemed that they must deal Philippa a blow which she would thankfully have spared her, a blow which must surely dissolve the girl's castle of dreams into dust. But she did not flinch. "He does not love you," she said sternly. Philippa started; then she gave a low laugh of content. "Ah," she said with a tender smile, "you do not know--how should you?--how great a love he has for me." "He does not love you. It is not you he loves," continued Marion relentlessly. "Oh, my dear! my dear! can you not see your mistake? It is you who do not understand. His love is not for you. Every word of love he speaks, every bit of the love in his heart belongs to another woman. He does not think of you. You are not in it at all, or if you are, you are only a supplanter taking what is not meant for you." Marion was crying openly now, the tears coursing unheeded down her cheeks, but Philippa did not notice them. She did not seem to have heard, she was gazing out of the window, intent only on her thoughts, and from the expression on her face those thoughts were very tender, very sweet. And in the little pause that followed, Marion laid down her weapons, knowing they were useless. Her last shot had failed, and there was nothing in her armoury that would pierce the armour of the girl's conviction. She had no power to forbid. After all, Philippa was not a child, but a woman grown. She dried her eyes rather surreptitiously, and then got up and crossed to where her friend was standing, and put her arm through hers. "I won't say any more," she said huskily, "because I don't think it is any use, and although we can't agree, which distresses me infinitely, our disagreement is not going to divide us. Nothing can hurt our friendship." In her heart she was already seeking to comfort Philippa for the pain which she was certain must come, but the girl knew nothing of that. Philippa stooped and kissed her without speaking.