Celia had turned to the window whilst her friend was speaking, her hands clasping and unclasping under an agitation she strained to subdue. At last she spoke, still looking away, low and faltering, “Evie, he mustn’t come, he mustn’t.” She turned and continued rapidly, her eyes wandering over the room refusing to meet the other’s troubled gaze, her colour coming and going painfully. “You don’t know about him. Mother and I have never mentioned his name—she had given her word and would never break it, she’s like that, you know, but I’m not; I couldn’t let him go out of our lives absolutely whatever I’d promised. And so I’ve managed to get news of him and told her from time to time, not by name but so that she could understand. She never answered me; I could see sometimes how she wanted to; her longing was terrible, but she wouldn’t because she had promised.” She spoke in a rush of words as if to forestall criticism. “Yes, dear, but surely that promise is ended now. You see she thinks so; she wants him now.” “But he can’t come, he mustn’t come,” cried Celia passionately. “She’s not able to stand another shock. I’ve let her suppose he was happy and doing very well. So he was, but he isn’t now. He’s had a lot of trouble lately; Margaret and the child are ill and he’s no work and is practically without a penny. I should have to tell mother, and it has been her one joy to believe him successful. It would kill her. I can’t.” “Then I will,” answered Evelyn firmly. “She’ll want him all the more.” “No! you mustn’t, promise you won’t! I oughtn’t to have told you!” Celia spoke with intense agitation and seized her hand. “Promise!” “It’s your secret, not mine,” answered Evelyn gravely. “But you will do a great wrong if you don’t tell her, a wrong to both of them. She ought to know now: and if he wants help it will be her happiness to give it him.” “No, no!” cried Celia, her voice breaking into wild sobs. “Later perhaps, not now. Oh, you don’t understand, Evelyn. I’m afraid, so terribly afraid. They’ll rake up everything in father’s life, and when they find out about John they’ll think he had a hand in it; I know they will. He mustn’t, he mustn’t come here!” She had worked herself up into such a state that Evelyn realized that it would be harmful to press what seemed to her so obvious. She replied now to the last wild words, “Darling, you mustn’t run away with such absurd ideas. To think that any one could suppose, just because John quarrelled with his father ages ago—ten years ago, isn’t it?—that he—it’s too silly of you!” “It isn’t silly,” replied Celia, weeping. “I may be silly about some things but not—oh, I can’t bear it! You don’t know; John was——” She choked her words down sharply, turned away and fought herself back to some control. “I will try and rest again a little now,” she said at last wearily. “Don’t you worry about me, Evelyn; I shall be all right.”