“Well—” went on Aunt Betty. “As I was saying, on ‘Church-Kneelers’ signed by ‘A Vicar’. Well, it’s a very curious thing, but you remember, Harriet, that nice Mr. Redpath—” “One moment, Betty, please,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “Not so much as that, Harry. Simply the leg. Thank you, dear. _Simply_ the leg. That nice Mr. Redpath—with the nice wife and so many dear little children—he was curate to Mr. Williams of St. Clemens for years. Harriet, _you’ll_ remember—one year all the children had scarlet fever together, and two of the poor little things died, although I couldn’t help thinking that really it was rather a mercy—” “Mustard, please,” said Henry. “More beef, Aggie?” said Mrs. Trenchard. “No, _thank_ you,” said Aggie, snapping her teeth upon a piece of bread. She was thinking: “How selfish they all are! They can’t see how I’m suffering!” “Well, _that_ Mr. Redpath—You _must_ remember him, Harriet, because he had a red moustache and a rather fine white forehead—when he left Mr. Williams got a living somewhere in Yorkshire, near York, I think, or was it Scarborough? Scarborough, because I remember when I wrote to congratulate him he answered me in such a nice letter, and said that it would be just the place for the children. _You_ remember, Katherine, I showed it you.” “Yes,” said Katherine. Henry, hearing her voice, looked across at her and then dropped his eyes upon his plate. She seemed herself again. Had her letter made her happy? With a sudden start he realised that Millie also was watching her.... “Well, it must have been about 1900 that Mr. Redpath went to Scarborough. I remember it was the year before that dreadful wet school treat here, when we didn’t know where to put all the children. I know the year after he went there poor Mrs. Redpath died and left him with all those little children—” Just at that moment Philip came in. He came with the spray of the sea still wet upon his cheeks, his hair shining with it. His colour flaming, his eyes on fire. He had been, in the wind and darkness, down the Rafiel Road to the point above Tredden Cove where the sea broke inland. Here, deafened by the wind, blinded by the night, the sea-mist, now lashing his face, now stroking it softly with gentle fingers, he had stood on the edge of the world and heard the waters that are beyond the world exult in their freedom and scorn for men. He, too, standing there, had had scorn for himself. He had seen Katherine’s eyes as she turned from him in the garden, he had seen his own wretched impatience and temper and selfishness. “By heaven,” he thought, as he strode back, “I’ll never be so contemptible again. I’ll make them all trust me and like me. As for Katherine ...” and so he burst in upon them, without even brushing his hair first. Also, the only vacant chair was next to Aunt Aggie.... Aunt Betty, who thought that Philip’s entry had been a little violent and abrupt, felt that she had better cover it with the continuation of her story.