Who knows what women feel? We may guess, but they will never tell us. They won’t even tell each other. As regards Rose and Ronnie, my guess is that his pathetic collapse attracted more than his radiant vigour would have done. Had she found him triumphant, as of old, she would have remained unscathed. Strong and masterful he might have called to her in vain, for she was never a sensualist. It was his dependence that swayed her and decided her. It was the boy Ronnie needing tenderness and care. Involved and fantastic as it may sound, I have the belief that it was the mother instinct that took Rose off with Ronnie more than love. What I mean is that she did not go with him as most women go with men, through ordinary passion, but because he was fragile and in need of protection and she thought of him as her own, or—subconsciously of course—even as one of those unborn sons which he himself would have begotten. So mystical can women be! But of course the wild hope of escape was present too: the wish to live a little more fully while there was yet time; the feeling that to endure another moment with Eustace was impossible and wrong. And again Theodore’s wish came back to me. Was this “beating the band”? Could anything be farther from the ordinary conception of that successful and honourable act than running off with another man and leaving husband and child? And yet, it had required courage, devotion, disregard of the world’s censure—all the things that properly-brought-up and even universally respected people need not possess. What a muddle is our civilization! * * * * * “You must forgive this untimely and unprofessional visit,” I said, as I was shown into Mrs. O’Gorman’s over-furnished sitting-room. “Don’t be foolish, Doctor,” she replied. “Have done with your politeness. Don’t I know why you’re here?” “You do?” I exclaimed. “Of course I do,” she said. “It’s about Rose. She’s bolted.” “But surely the villagers aren’t talking?” I said in a panic of alarm. “You don’t mean to say it’s not a secret!” “No one knows but you and me,” said the old lady. “And Suzanne,” I corrected: “O, Suzanne! She doesn’t matter. She’s an ally. But no one else knows. I know because I had a letter to-day. Rose took me some way into her confidence when she was staying with you. Old people often get told things. But don’t worry; it’s all right.” “All right?” I echoed. “What do you mean? Do you want young wives to behave like this?” “When they’re like Rose—yes,” she said. “The poor lamb was miserable. That iceberg of hers was no good except to freeze her. She wants life, love, human emotions, and she’ll get them with the young Captain.” “But—” I exclaimed, aghast at this Bolshevism. “You talk as if people had the right to do as they please—break laws—anything.”