“I thought it was only fair she should have some one to talk to,” he said, trying to speak carelessly, and annoyed that the words sounded like a self-justification. “Oh, I hope she’ll see it as you meant it, and be worthy of it!” cried Philippa, almost as though it were a prayer. “But, Fergus, you mustn’t be surprised if she doesn’t,” she added, with regret. “Cecily, you know, is vain. I remember that of her as a striking characteristic from our schooldays. She’s so charming, so lovable, but she’s weak, Fergus.... Poor Fergus!” she murmured, “I wish I had the right to comfort you!” The breeze fluttered her mysterious hair. In the soft green gloom flung by the trees, her eyes looked like forest pools for depth. She sighed, and the roses on her breast rose and sank, wafting an intoxicating perfume. Robert’s heart beat so quickly that he could scarcely speak. He flung himself onto the grass, and leaned against her knees. “You have! You must! I don’t want comfort--I want _you_!” he whispered, incoherently. “Philippa, it’s ended between me and Cecily! She doesn’t love me now. I don’t love her. I can only think of you. Listen! Listen, darling, I can’t go on talking about friendship any more. I love you!” He put both arms round her, and held her--held her while at first she resisted. But only for a moment. She grew suddenly, rigidly, still. He threw back his head, still holding her, to look into her face. She was pale, but she gazed at him mysteriously, with a sort of religious ardor. “Speak to me, Philippa!” he begged. “Is it really, really so, Fergus?” she whispered. “The great love? the perfect union?” “You know I love you,” he said, beginning to realize that this was surrender, but that Philippa must do it in her own way. “I think it would be right for us, Fergus. I _feel_ it would be right!” she added, with the conviction of a mystic who has received a sign from Heaven. “Conventions, laws--they are for little people. Great love is its own justification.” The phrase struck Robert as familiar. But what did phrases matter? She was yielding. “You love me, then?” he urged, trembling. “Yes, Fergus,” she said in her low, vibrating voice. “Yes, it _is_ love--and I didn’t know it. You have revealed me to myself.” He kissed her passionately. “Call me by my own name,” he said, rising, still with his arm about her, and drawing her to her feet. “_Dear_ Robert!” she murmured as he rained kisses on her hair. He was standing with his back to the narrow archway cut in the hedge, and her face was hidden against his shoulder. It was at that moment that Cecily and Mayne reached the entrance to the yew garden. For one second Cecily stood motionless, then without a word she moved on past the narrow archway, and continued walking parallel to the hedge on the outward side. Mayne followed her, embarrassment for the moment so strong within him that there was no room for any other emotion.