But Kate spoke quickly, as if she had not heard. "Then you think I did right in letting Jacqueline believe Channing had failed her?" The girl thought it over. "No," she said at last, with her usual ruthlessness. "I don't. No good ever comes of deception, Mother. Look what it has done already! Poor Mag ran away because she was afraid of not keeping your secret." Kate winced. "But I have Jacqueline!" "And of course," conceded the other thoughtfully, "Mag would have gone to the bad anyway, soon or late.--Oh, yes, she would, Mother! No use blinking facts. As she used to say, she was 'spiled anyway.' On the whole," Jemima decided, "I think you have done the best thing possible. But I wish _I_ had been here!--What are you going to do with Jacky now? Let her study singing?" Kate realized the silence that had latterly fallen on Storm. The girl had not sung a note in weeks. Both piano and graphophone had been idle. She spoke of this. "That's bad! Music has always meant so much to Jacky. She'll have to have an outlet of some sort. Better let her come home with me, Mother. I'll get her interested in something." Kate shook her head. "Try, if you like, but she won't go. She's more 'mommerish' than ever just now, poor baby. She needs mothering, I think--and marrying!" Jemima looked up quickly. "You mean Philip? Surely, Mother, you've given up the Philip idea, after _this_!" "Why should I?" "Why, Mother! Would it be fair to him? Don't you realize that poor little Jacky has been almost--wicked?" "No, no, dear, never wicked! Only ignorant, and desperately in love. It seemed to her the honorable thing to do to go away openly with the man she loved, instead of concealing it.--Oh, can't you understand? Don't you see the difference between generous, blind sacrifice, and what you call 'wickedness'?" "No," said Jemima, with pursed lips. "I must confess I can't. That happens to be my weakness.--But I can see, and have always seen, that Jacqueline is one of the sort of people who ought to be married as early in life as possible." "Exactly! And who better for her than Philip?" Jemima looked at her mother in utter exasperation. Was it possible that she was still blind to the thing that was the gossip of the countryside? Or--a new thought!--was it possible that she was going to take advantage of Philip's devotion to her, of his idealism and capacity for self-immolation, to persuade him into carrying out her long-laid plans? Jemima herself might have been capable of such a ruthless thing, but on consideration she did not believe it of her mother. There was a certain large innocence about Mrs. Kildare, an almost virginal shyness of mind, that made it difficult for her to conceive, even in the face of direct evidence, that a man younger than herself, a man whom she chose to regard as a son, could be regarding her in turn with eyes other than filial. Jemima did her the justice to recognize this.