She paused for a moment. It occurred to Mrs. Grant that she had rehearsed her tale beforehand, and that phrase had come to her as an effective one. It did not seem to represent what she was actually feeling, though it may have represented what she thought she ought to feel. "I could only gasp out, ’Harry! You here!’ He said, ’Yes, mother!’ Then he took hold of the girl’s hand, and said, ’This is Viola. We have loved each other for a long time.’ That was absolutely all he said, and she said nothing, but just looked at me, as if she was frightened, as I dare say she was." "Oh, I hope you——" She did not continue. Mrs. Brent would tell her what she had done. She did not tell her at once, and Mrs. Grant’s heart sank as she expatiated further on what she had felt. "The very thing," she said, "that we’d all sacrificed ourselves to prevent, during the whole of Harry’s boyhood. I was absolutely _stunned_. There they stood hand in hand in front of me, and waited for me to say something. And what _could_ I say? Harry—my boy! And a girl like that! Oh, I shall never get over it. And I can’t think what _she’ll_ say, though there’s one thing—she can’t blame me for it." Mrs. Grant had been thinking rapidly. She had heard about Viola from Mrs. Ivimey. Her impression of her had been of a very young and beautiful girl, of whom nice things were said naturally. It needed some little effort of imagination to connect her with Harry, and certainly it was rather surprising that Harry, of all people, should have cherished that kind of secret. But the picture of the pair of them standing there hand in hand waiting for the speech which she dreaded to be told had not come rose before her. "Oh, he couldn’t have gone on loving her for two whole years unless she was sweet and good," she said. Mrs. Brent bridled in offence. "That didn’t come in when _I_ was married," she said. "She’s no better than I was. Her mother wasn’t brought up as I had been, though there was nothing against her. It simply can’t be allowed. _I_ can’t do anything. Harry won’t listen to me. This girl has taken him away from me. Of course it’s all explained now—why he was so different to me when he came home—oh, and why he didn’t write, and everything. He wrote to her. He _is_ different. She’s made him so. He isn’t like my son any more. I’m only thankful that it didn’t happen, or at least I didn’t know about it, while I was living down here." It seemed probable that she was congratulating herself that the whole of her interests in life were no longer bound up in Harry. This was no very comforting thought to Mrs. Grant. "I wish you’d tell me how it ended," she said.