As they faced each other there, Agatha, with the terrible, the almost supernatural lucidity she had, saw what was making Milly say that. Milly had been frightened; she felt that she had probably communicated her fright; she knew that that was dangerous, and she knew that if it had done harm to Harding, she and not Agatha would be responsible. And because she couldn't face her responsibility, she was trying to fasten upon Agatha some other fault than fear. "No, Milly, I don't say you frightened me, it was my own fear." "What was there for _you_ to be afraid of?" Agatha was silent. That was what she must never tell her, not even to make her understand. She did not know what Milly was trying to think of her; Milly might think what she liked; but she should never know what her terror had been and her danger. Agatha's silence helped Milly. "Nothing will make me believe," she said, "that it was your fear that did it. That would never have made you give Harding up. Besides, you were not afraid at first, though you may have been afterwards." "Afterwards?" It was her own word, but it had as yet no significance for her. "After--whatever it was you gave him up for. You gave him up for something." "I did not. I never gave him up until I was afraid." "You gave It up. You wouldn't have done that if there had not been something. Something that stood between." "If," said Agatha, "you could only tell me what it was." "I can't tell you. I don't know what came to you. I only know that if I'd had a gift like that, I would not have given it up for anything. I wouldn't have let anything come between. I'd have kept myself ..." "I did keep myself--for _it_. I couldn't keep myself entirely for Harding; there were other things, other people. I couldn't give them up for Harding or for anybody." "Are you quite sure you kept yourself what you were, Aggy?" "What _was_ I?" "My dear--you were absolutely pure. You said _that_ was the condition." "Yes. And, don't you see, who _is_--absolutely? If you thought _I_ was you didn't know me." As she spoke she heard the sharp click of the latch as the garden gate fell to; she had her back to the window so that she saw nothing, but she heard footsteps that she knew, resolute and energetic footsteps that hurried to their end. She felt the red blood surge into her face, and saw that Milly's face was white with another passion, and that Milly's eyes were fixed on the figure of the man who came up the garden path. And without looking at her Milly answered. "I don't know now; but I think I see, my dear ..." In Milly's pause the door-bell rang violently. Milly rose and let her have it--"what was the flaw in the crystal." CHAPTER THIRTEEN Rodney entered the room and it was then that Milly looked at her. Milly's face was no longer the face of passion, but of sadness and reproach, almost of recovered incredulity. It questioned rather than accused her. It said unmistakably, "You gave him up for _that_?"