Madge covered her eyes with her hand for a moment. The question had to be answered; she knew that, and she knew also that unless Evelyn made a further sign she could do nothing. If his love for her, as she doubted not at all, was real, he must approach her again. Here then were all the data for her answer. "No," she said. "I shall do nothing, because there is no need. He must----" And she broke off. Then she got up with a sudden swift movement. "You put it coarsely, you make cast-iron of it all, mother," she said, "when you ask me if I intend to write to him and tell him. Of course I do not." "Nor see him?" pursued Lady Ellington. "If he asks to see me I shall see him," said she. "And if his object is to say again what he said to-day, I shall tell him." Now to get news, even if it is not very satisfactory, is better than not getting news. In uncertainty there is no means of telling how to act, and whatever the contingency--a contingency known is like a danger known--it can perhaps be guarded against, and it can certainly be faced. How to guard against this Lady Ellington did not at the moment see, but she knew that danger lay here. "And from that moment you will break off your engagement with Philip?" she asked. There was no need here of any reply, and Lady Ellington continued: "Now consider exactly how Mr. Dundas stands," she said. "He knows you are engaged to a friend of his, that you will be married in a few weeks, and he allows himself, left alone with you by accident, to make this declaration to you. Does that seem to you to be an honourable action?" Then once again Madge flashed out. "Ah, who cares?" she cried. "What does that matter?" Lady Ellington rose. "You have also promised to marry Philip," she said. "I suppose that does not matter either? Or do I wrong you?" "He would not wish me to marry him if he knew," said Madge. Lady Ellington poured out her glass of hot water, and sipped it in silence. She knew well that many words may easily spoil the effect of few, and her few, she thought, on the whole had been well chosen. So just as before she had refused to talk on any subject but one, so now, since she had said really just what she meant to say, she refused any longer to talk on it, but was agreeably willing, as Madge had been some ten minutes before, to talk about anything else. "I think there will be more rain before morning," she said. Then Madge came close to her and knealt by her chair. "Are you not even sorry for me, mother?" she said. "I shall be if you act unwisely," replied the other, and Madge, there was nothing else to be done, got up again.