“No, it’s because he loves you so much that he’d do it. Because he’d rather have none of you than only a bit of you, rather have none of you than share you with us.” She turned round, staring into Katherine’s eyes. “Oh, I understand him so well! I believe I’m the only one in all the family who does! You think that I’m not grown up yet, that I know nothing about life, that I don’t know what people do or think, but I believe that I do know better than anyone! And, after all, it’s Philip himself that’s made me see! He understands now what he’s got to give up if he marries you—all his dreams, all his fun, all his travels, all his imagination. _You_ don’t want to give up anything, Katie. You want to keep all this, Garth and the sea, even the oldest old man and woman in the place, above all, you want to keep all of us, mother most of all. You know that mother hates Philip and will always make him unhappy, but still you think that it’s fair that you should give up nothing and he everything. But you’re up against more than Philip, Katie—you’re up against all his imagination that won’t let him alone however much he wants it to—and then,” Millie finally added, turning her eyes back to the other garden—“There’s the other woman.” “Why!” Katherine cried—“You know?... Who told you?” “And _you_ know?” cried Millie. “He told you after all?” “But who told you?” Katherine insisted, her hand on Millie’s shoulder. “Henry.” “Then _he_ knows. Who else?” “None of the family, I think, unless Henry’s told the others. I’ve never said a word.” “Who told _him_?” “A man at his Club.” There was silence. Then Katherine said: “So _that’s_ why you’ve been so queer?” “Yes. I didn’t know whether he’d told you or no. I was afraid to say anything. I thought perhaps he’d told you and it was making you miserable. Then I thought that you ought to know. I thought sometimes that I’d speak to Philip, and then I was afraid of Henry doing something awful, blurting it all out to everybody. I haven’t known what to do. But, Katie darling, you aren’t unhappy about it, are you?” “No—not unhappy,” said Katherine. “Because you mustn’t be. What does it matter what Phil did before he loved you, whom he knew? What _does_ it matter so long as you take her place? If ever anybody loved anybody, Philip loves you....” Then she said quickly, eagerly: “What was she like, Katie? Did he tell you? Did he describe her? Was she lovely, clever? What was her name?” “Anna,” Katie said. “Does he think of her still? Does he want to see her again?” “I don’t know,” Katherine said slowly. “That’s what’s been so hard all these months. We simply don’t talk of her. He doesn’t want to think of her, nor of Russia, nor of any of that past life. He says it’s all dead—” “Well,” said Millie, eagerly.