“You’re the daughter of Aggie Mummings, whom I used to know. You must be. Poor Aggie ... I remember your mother quite well—a feeble thing always, never knowing her mind and always wanted people’s advice. I used to say to her: ‘Aggie, if you let men see how feeble you are you’ll never get married’—but she did after all—which shows you never can tell—I think, Millie, I’ll have some more hot in this ... yes, I remember your mother very well, poor thing.” “I’ve heard her speak of you, Miss Trenchard,” said Mrs. Drake. Mr. Drake suddenly attacked Millie. “Well now—about Paris—you know—very different from this hole, ain’t it?” “Very different,” said Millie. “But I don’t consider this ‘a hole’.” “Don’t you now? Well—that’s very interesting. Don’t you?... _I_ do.” Millie had nothing to say. “It’s slow, you know—horrid slow—just weather, _I_ call it. Whether it’s raining or not, you know—. Yes ... I wonder you don’t find it slow after Paris.” “I was at school there, you see,” said Millie. “It’s different when you’re at school.” “I suppose it is. Yes, I s’pose so.” He began to cram his fist into his mouth, was surprised at its boniness, regarded it gravely, said: “Well, yes ... I s’pose so ... Yes ... Well ...” and was silent. Then Mrs. Trenchard at last returned: Katherine was with her. Henry at once saw that Katherine had been crying. The effect of this discovery upon Henry was elemental in its force. He had, during all his life, regarded Katherine as almost omnipotent in her strength and wisdom. He had, moreover, always thought to himself: “One day she will have her reward,” and his vision of Katherine’s future happiness and glory had been one of his favourite dreams. Now that cad had been making her cry.... He was, at that moment, on the very edge of making a scene ... he would fling Philip’s letter down there, in front of them, Drakes and all. He would cry: “There! that’s from the beast who’s been making her cry—and I tell you he’s a cad. He had a woman for years in Russia and had a son too—that’s the kind of fellow he is.” But Katherine was smiling and laughing. The Drakes certainly would not see that she had been crying: even Millie did not, apparently, notice it; Millie, having done her duty by the Drakes, was going upstairs to write letters. She said good-bye and left the room ... two minutes later Henry slipped out after her. He caught her at the top of the stairs. “I say,” he said. “Come into my room for a minute. I’ve got something to tell you.” “Oh, bother,” answered Millie. “I want to write letters.” “Never mind. You must. It’s important.” “Aren’t the Drakes awful?” she said, standing inside his door and observing the disorder of his room with a scornful lip. “Yes, they are,” said Henry. “Wasn’t Aunt Aggie angry when I laughed?” “A silly sort of thing to do anyway. _What_ a room! You might put those clothes away, and why can’t you have another shelf for the books? That table—”