“And then when I met Nigel, and he wanted to marry me, I was thankful. I was so tired of struggling and having to pretend. I wanted to feel safe and--and sheltered. I wanted it so much. And now I shall lose him too. And it will all begin over again--all over again----” She stopped, drawing a long, exhausted breath. Cecily rose and went to the window, which she threw wider open. She felt that she wanted fresh air. Then she turned. “Listen!” she said. “Don’t say any more. Go home now, and write to me. Tell me just what you want to put things straight, and I’ll manage it somehow.” For a minute Philippa sat motionless, staring, her mouth a little open, her untidy hair hanging round her face. “You mean----?” she began. “I should like to put things quite straight for you,” Cecily answered, simply. Philippa rose rather unsteadily to her feet. She began to realize that she was safe. With the knowledge, her old self, the self made out of incessant posing, constant mental attitudinizing, began to gather like a shell over the elemental human being for whom Cecily had been experiencing a very passion of pity. She pushed her crushed hat at the right angle, her head drooped to its accustomed position, a little on one side, her body reassumed its yearning lines. She held out both hands to Cecily. “How we have misjudged each other, you and I!” she exclaimed, employing the deep tones in her voice. “I thought you unsympathetic, unimaginative. And you no doubt thought me----” She hesitated. It became difficult with Cecily’s eyes upon her to suggest the possible mental attitude she might formerly have adopted towards her husband’s secretary. “You have a fine nature,” she murmured. “You----” Cecily checked her sharply. The impulsive wave of pity had passed. “Please don’t,” she said, coldly. “I’m not noble, nor generous, nor a fine character, nor any of the things you are fond of talking about.” Her heart began to beat quickly. “You altered the world for me!” she cried, with a sudden passion for which she could not account. “_Some one_ would have done it anyhow, no doubt; I have realized that. But it happened to be _you_. If I were jealous now, I couldn’t lift a finger to help you. But the worst of it is, I’m not jealous any more, and because you’re a woman, too,--and that in itself is hard enough,--I’ll help you now. You have taught me to put it out of any man’s power to hurt me much again. But listen to me!” Her voice rang imperatively. Philippa raised unwilling eyes, and the women looked at each other. “For what I’ve had to kill to make it possible _not_ to be hurt, I will never forgive you to the end of my life.” The words were uttered with an intense deliberation. Philippa paled, and turned away without offering her hand. Before she reached the door, she heard Cecily’s voice again. This time it was quite under control. She spoke as though they had been conducting an ordinary business interview.