"Nothing. She just fell in love with every man she met. If she'd only seen him for five minutes she was off after him. Ordering her trousseau and dressing herself up. She was no more mad than I am except just on that one point." "Aunt Lavvy said that was why Uncle Victor never married. He was afraid of something--something happening to his children. What do you think he thought would happen?" Her mother's foot tapped on the floor. "I'm sure I can't tell you what he thought. And I don't know what there was to be afraid of. I wish you wouldn't throw your stockings all about the room." Mamma picked up the stockings and went away. You could see that she was annoyed. Annoyed with Uncle Victor for having been afraid to marry. A dreadful thought came to her. "Does Mamma really think I'm like Aunt Charlotte? I won't be like her. I won't.... I'm not. There was Jimmy and there was Maurice Jourdain. But I didn't fall in love with the Proparts or the Manistys, or Norman Waugh, or Harry Craven, or Dr. Charles. Or Mr. Sutcliffe.... She _said_ I was as bad as Aunt Charlotte. Because I said I'd go to Maurice.... I meant, just to see him. What did she think I meant?... Oh, not _that_.... Would I really have gone? Got into the train and gone? _Would_ I?" She would never know. "I wish I knew what Uncle Victor was afraid of." Wondering what he had been afraid of, she felt afraid. XXV I. She waited. Mamma and Mark had turned their backs to her as they clung together. But there was his sparrow-brown hair, clipped close into the nape of his red-brown neck. If only Mamma wouldn't cry like that-- "Mark--" "Is that Minky?" They held each other and let go in one tick of the clock, but she had stood a long time seeing his eyes arrested in their rush of recognition. Disappointed. The square dinner-table stretched itself into an immense white space between her and Mark. It made itself small again for Mark and Mamma. Across the white space she heard him saying things: about Dan meeting him at Tilbury, and poor Victor coming to Liverpool Street, and Cox's. Last night he had stayed at Ilford, he had seen Bella and Edward and Pidgeon and Mrs. Fisher and the Proparts. "Do you remember poor Edward and his sheep? And Mary's lamb!" Mark hadn't changed, except that he was firmer and squarer, and thinner, because he had had fever. And his eyes--He was staring at her with his disappointed eyes. She called to him. "You don't know me a bit, Mark." He laughed. "I thought I'd see somebody grown up. Victor said Mary was dreadfully mature. What did he mean?" Mamma said she was sure she didn't know. "What do you do with yourself all day, Minky?" "Nothing much. Read--work--play tennis with Mr. Sutcliffe." "Mr.--Sutcliffe?" "Never mind Mr. Sutcliffe. Mark doesn't want to hear about him." "Is there a _Mrs._ Sutcliffe?" "Yes." "Does _she_ play?" "No. She's too old. Much older than he is." "That'll do, Mary."