At about six o’clock that evening Wilbraham was walking along the woodland path that led from the cottage to the Castle. He walked slowly with his eyes on the ground all the time, and his face was very thoughtful. He started violently as he looked up to see Harry standing in the path in front of him. For a moment they stood there looking at one another. "Well?" said Harry. Wilbraham’s eyes dropped, and he walked on, Harry with him. "You’ve been meeting here," he said. "Yes." Another pause. Then from Wilbraham: "You’ve been making love." "Making love? I don’t like the expression. We love each other—yes." Wilbraham said nothing, and they walked on together. Presently they came to a fallen tree by the side of the path. "Let’s sit down here and have it out," said Wilbraham. Harry spoke first. "I’m glad you know," he said. "I’d like all the world to know; you can tell why, now you’ve seen her. But I suppose it wouldn’t do for mother and Granny to know—not just yet." Wilbraham seemed to pull his determination together. "My dear boy," he said, "you mustn’t take it for granted that they’re not to know. It has come as a complete surprise to me; I don’t know what to do about it yet." Harry laughed. The situation seemed to contain no awkwardness for him, whatever doubts it might have brought to Wilbraham. "Before you settle that," he said, "tell me what you think of her." "She’s a very beautiful child," said Wilbraham, thoughtfully. He laid no stress on the word "child," to belittle Harry’s confession of love. It was as she had struck him. He had gone into the little parlour to find Bastian there, dressed more in accordance with what he had seemed to be than on the day before. A faint smell of his strong tobacco hung about the room, but it had been tidied, and freshened up with flowers, and tea was laid on the table, with signs of ceremony and care. Then Viola came in, and he had the impression of Bastian triumphantly watching him as he introduced her. He did indeed open his eyes at first sight of her, as her father had foretold. He would not have been so surprised at the vision of her, fresh and delicate, very simply dressed in her white frock, with all the air about her of breeding and refinement, if it had not been for the memory of Bastian the day before, with his deteriorated tastes, and his talk of downfall. A flower, he had said of her, growing out of the mire; but who had tended her growing? Mrs. Ivimey came in with the tea, and was voluble with Wilbraham about her ladyship and Sir Harry. Wilbraham’s eyes were on Viola the whole time, and he saw the colour rise on her soft cheeks as Harry’s name was mentioned, but made nothing of it at the time.