He made a grimace. "All these arguments, you know, Hilton, are June's. I've heard them over and over again during the past week.... Haven't you anything new--something you've only just thought of--something bright and original--anything--anything--I don't care a damn what it is so long as I haven't heard it before?" I thought he was sneering until I saw his eyes. They were full of a curious, child-like eagerness--an eagerness that almost _tore_ through them. Something new--something bright and original--something he hadn't heard before ... it was his heart-cry always. I said: "I'm sorry. There isn't anything new to say. It's just that, quite sincerely, June and I believe that the best service we can do for Terry is to leave things alone." "You've changed your mind, then, since the last time we talked about it?" "Yes, I have." Then he said, quietly and almost casually: "Very well then, we'll drop the matter." II _Drop the matter_! And June was speechless. She went towards him as if she would have hugged him, but remembering his fragility in time, kissed him warmly on the lips. It seemed to please him; he patted her head and told her that he quite realized her little game of throwing me into the fray at the last minute, as Napoleon threw in his guards at Waterloo. And all she could reply then was: "You dear--_dear_--to have given up your beautiful trial-scene--for I know--I understand--how much you were looking forward to it." He said, patting her head again: "Wait till that Chicago fellow has finished with me. Then I'll have all the trial-scenes I want." She couldn't reply to that at all; I could see her eyes filling and brimming over with tears. I intervened then myself, telling him how glad and grateful I was, and how much I hoped that the future would bring recovery to him. And when I had finished he said, quite in his old half-mocking tone again: "That's very nice of you. Now let's be as sentimental as we can about it--and, to begin with, let us all cry." Perhaps we should have cried but for his saying that. As it was we laughed, June, he and I; and then suddenly I noticed Helen. She wasn't laughing and she wasn't crying either; she was just looking dreadfully in front of her, with cheeks pale and lips tightened; and when she caught my eye she said, quickly and sharply: "So you're _not_ going to tell Terry?" We looked at her, all of us; the centre of gravity had suddenly shifted. "That's what we've decided," I said. "You're satisfied for him to get what happiness he can out of ignorance?" "Well--if you put it that way--yes." She bit her lips till they were almost white. Then, in the midst of the tense, expectant silence, she retorted: "I'm _not_ satisfied, and I never will be. And if you aren't going to tell him the truth, then I am...."