“Oh, rot! Dry up!” Henry moved about uneasily, kicking a book along the floor. “I’ve got something I want to—I can’t keep it to myself any longer.” “What is it? About Philip and Katie?” “No, not about Katie. At least—not unless he’s told her. It’s about Philip.” “What is it?” Millie said again. “He’s the most awful cad—an absolute outsider. I’ve known it for weeks, only I haven’t decided what to do.” “I don’t believe it,” Millie said, slowly. “You don’t know enough about men to tell whether a man’s an outsider or not.... What’s he done?” “In Russia—in Moscow—he had a mistress for years—and they had a son. He’s never said anything about it, but it’s true. They say he had an awful reputation in Moscow.” “Who’s ‘they’?” said Millie, slowly. The colour mounted into her cheeks. “A man I know—a friend of Seymour’s. Oh! I know it’s true. There isn’t any sort of doubt about it.” “I daresay it is. Men are like that,” Millie said, with profundity. “Decent men aren’t. Not the sort of man who will marry Katie.” Millie said nothing, and there was a long silence in the room. Then, with a deep sigh, Millie said: “If it _is_ true what does it matter if it’s all over?” “Perhaps it isn’t. Besides, if he’s that kind of man he’ll do it again. And anyway, if Katie were to know—” “Ah! if Katie were to know—” They stood there, young (very young) defenders of Katherine. They would both of them, always, afterwards remember that moment, that hour, that Sunday. There came for both of them, suddenly, an active, urgent demand on their participation in a sudden adventure, a real, serious adventure, and they simply did not know what to do with it. With neither of them was their apprehension, disgust, dismay so great as their curiosity. The first thing, after the pause, that Millie said was: “I wonder what she’s like, that other woman I mean.” Henry had been wondering for weeks. He now produced his conclusions. “It’s my idea,” he said, “that she was simply bored with him, couldn’t endure him any longer. I expect they had awful rows—Russians do, you know, and Philip’s got a temper I should think. Then he came home, and—sort of to save his pride because the other woman had kicked him out—made love to the first woman he saw. Katherine _was_ the first, you know.” Millie felt a momentary surprise at her brother’s unexpected cleverness. Then she shook her head: “No, I’m sure it’s not that. He loves Katherine, I know, anyone can see it.” “Well, then,” said Henry, with sudden volcanic happiness, “he’s making her awfully miserable. She was crying this afternoon, and I’ve got a letter in my pocket now that he told me to give to her for her to read while he was out.... They’ve had a quarrel.” “Perhaps he’s told her.” “If he’s making her unhappy—” “I wonder what she thinks about it—”