(‘Mother,’ thought Virginia, ‘is really very nice, in spite of her queer ways.’) ‘You’ve no idea,’ she said aloud, her eyes bright with pride, ‘how wonderful he is.’ (‘Who,’ thought Catherine, ‘could have imagined it. That solemn old Stephen.’) ‘I’m so glad,’ she said aloud, putting her arm round Virginia. ‘You know I used to be afraid--I wasn’t quite sure--whether perhaps the difference in age----’ ‘Age!’ Virginia looked down at her mother pityingly. ‘I wish you understood, mother,’ she said gravely, ‘how little age has to do with it so long as people love each other. Why, what can it matter? We never think of it. It simply doesn’t come in. Stephen is Stephen, whatever his age may be. He never, never could be anything else.’ ‘No,’ agreed Catherine rather wistfully, for if Stephen could only be something else she might find him easier to talk to. However, that was neither here nor there. He wasn’t Virginia’s husband in order to talk agreeably to her mother. The great thing was that he succeeded in bringing complete bliss to his wife. How right the child had been to insist on marrying him; how unerring was her instinct. What had she cared for the reasoning of relations, the advice so copiously given not only by Catherine herself, but by various uncles and cousins, both on her father’s and mother’s side? And as for the suggestion that she would look ridiculous going about with a husband old enough to be her father, she had merely smiled gravely at that and not even condescended to answer. ‘I wonder,’ said Catherine, pensively gazing into the fire, her cheek against Virginia’s sleeve, ‘how much happiness has been prevented by fear.’ ‘What fear?’ ‘Of people--and especially relations. Their opinion.’ ‘I am sure,’ said Virginia, blushing a little, for she wasn’t used to talking about these things to anybody but Stephen, ‘that one should give up everything to follow love.’ ‘But what love?’ Virginia blushed again. ‘Oh, mother--of course only the right love.’ ‘You mean husbands?’ ‘Well, of course, mother.’ Virginia blushed a third time. What could her mother imagine she was thinking of? She went on with grave shyness: ‘Love--the right love--shouldn’t mind anything any one in the world says.’ ‘I suppose it shouldn’t,’ said Catherine. ‘And yet----’ ‘There isn’t any “and yet” in love, mother. Not in real love.’ ‘You mean husbands,’ said Catherine again. ‘Well, of course, mother,’ said Virginia, impatiently this time. ‘I suppose there isn’t,’ said Catherine pensively. ‘But still----’ ‘There isn’t any “but still” either.’ Before this splendid inexperience, this magnificent unawareness, Catherine could only be mute; and presently she held up her face to be kissed, and murmured that she thought she would now go to bed. Virginia fidgeted. She didn’t seem to want to leave the fire. She raked out the ashes for quite a long time, and then pushed the chairs back into their proper places and shook up the cushions.