"She came here," said Francis. "For all we know, she was writing to you every day and hearing from you. She said she was hearing from you. . . . Only just before she went she spoke about your letters. She went back to London yesterday. You ought to be with her. . . . In my opinion you ought to have fetched her back months ago." Basil seemed to have a great deal to say, but he gulped it down and reached out for the railway guide. "Yes," he said. "I suppose we must try again." "If you want money," said Francis, "I would rather you came to me than were obliged to any one else." "It isn't money. Thanks all the same." Francis felt his heart sink, but he let it pass. It seemed all the more imperative to him that Basil should hurry back to London. He bustled him out of the house and saw him to the station. * * * Three weeks passed during which no word came from Minna or Basil. Francis did not write to them, hoping that they were settling their differences--whatever they might be. One morning when he was up early he took in the letters and found one from Minna addressed to Mary. He watched Mary read it at breakfast. Without looking up she thrust it back into its envelope, her hand trembling so that the paper rustled, and slipped it into her pocket. "Who's your letter from," asked Mrs. Folyat. Francis held his breath. "It's from Fawcett's, the music-publishers. They haven't got the piece I wanted. Perhaps I didn't give the name right." Francis breathed again. Mary disappeared soon after breakfast. She went to Serge's studio. He was out. She waited for him all day and had nothing to eat. She did not even light the gas but sat thinking, thinking on no thought. Serge found her in the dark. "Why, Mary!" he said. She held out Minna's letter, and he sat and read it. "Have you told anybody at home?" "No. It's too awful." "It isn't awful at all. It's very silly of them to be angry with each other." "But divorce. . . . It's wicked." "Nonsense. It may be necessary. It often is. . . . She'll want a good deal of sympathy." "She doesn't deserve any." "How absurd you screwed-up people are! You don't give sympathy because people deserve it, but because they need it." Mary pondered that for a moment or two. Then she asked: "What did you say I was?" "Screwed-up." Mary said nothing. "We'd better burn this," said Serge. "We shall have to be discreet. Letters nearly always convey wrong impressions." "Shall I write to Minna?" "If you want to. Don't give her your opinion. She won't want it." "Who is to tell them at home?" "I will, if you like." "That's what I wanted you to do. . . . I felt that something was happening all the time Minna was here." "I'll go home with you now." "I think the sooner the better. . . . Something awful might happen." * * * Serge found his father in the greenhouse and went straight to the point. Francis was in his shirt-sleeves. He laid down his trowel and very slowly put on his coat.