"Because, for one thing, she's only a child, despite her adult ways of managing things. She hasn't the faintest idea of what sort of a man Terry is--oh, it's absurd--_too_ absurd...." She broke off suddenly and added, after a pause: "You'll go to-morrow, of course?" "Most likely." She shrugged her shoulders almost contemptuously, and then decided to return to the End House in the car that the chauffeur had driven up. I wasn't altogether sorry; somehow she was just beginning to get on my nerves.... On the pavement, as I saw her into the car, she said, finally: "I'm glad you'll go to-morrow. Then you'll find things out for yourself. June's too young--too unsophisticated. She means well, but she _can't_ know--she _can't_ understand--she must be making terrible blunders about him all the time. It was all right her teaching him tennis--she can do that well enough ... but now...." The chauffeur had not heard us talking, and drove away in the middle of that sentence. I have often wondered how, if at all, she had been going to finish it. IV And the next morning.... It was one of those cool, sunlit days when to leave London for the country is more than a pleasure--it is an intoxication, an orgy. During the journey from Waterloo there seemed but one rift in the whole sky of optimism--and that one rift was Helen. She _had_ been getting on my nerves. I had already learned to dislike her attitude towards Terry and her husband, and now, it seemed, I was beginning to dislike her attitude towards her daughter also. Her daughter met me at Haslemere, cool and pink and smiling in the sunshine. It is the loveliest picture in my mind (no, _nearly_ the loveliest) that quiet country railway station with June and the sunshine mingling together into a blaze of welcome. We conversed for a few moments in that eager unimportant way that always heralds the important. Had I minded coming? Should we hire a car to take us over the ridge to the Valley? _She_ preferred walking--it was only three miles or so.... Very well, we would walk. And we walked. Everything she said and everything I said has that winsome background of sunlight and red roofs and green lanes. We were in shadow when I said: "It's good news that I'm to hear, anyway. That relieves my anxiety, but not my curiosity." Then we came out of the shadow into a yellow blaze of roadway, and she answered: "Yes, it's _good_ news. It's more than good--it's marvellous." "He took it well, then, when you told him?" "Oh." And we passed into the shadow again. "I didn't need to tell him. He knew already." "Really?" "He'd seen one of the newspapers.... Odd, wasn't it?" She glanced at me quizzically. "_You_ said he never read them." "We both said so. The headlines must have caught his eye.... But tell me what happened."