They walked together to the village that they might fetch the afternoon post, otherwise unrescued until the following morning. Millie was in a bad temper. “I never knew anyone walk in the mud as you do, Henry. Your boots are filthy in a minute. You walk into every puddle you can see. You always did.” The trees hung ghostly out of the mist like mocking scarecrows. Every once and again moisture from somewhere trickled down between Henry’s neck and collar. “Look here, Millie,” he said gloomily, “I want your advice.” “You’ve done something silly again, I suppose,” she answered loftily. Glancing shyly at her, he thought that she was looking very pretty. Strange, the number of new things that he was noticing now about the family. But she _was_ pretty—a great deal prettier than Katherine; in fact, the only pretty one of the family. He liked her soft hair, so charming under her large flopping garden-hat, her little nose, her eyes black and sparkling, the colour of her cheeks, her tall and slim body that carried her old cotton dress so gracefully. Everything about her was right and beautiful in a way that no other members of the family could achieve. Katherine was always a little clumsy, although since her engagement to Philip she had taken more care.... There was something light and lovely about Millie that no care would produce if you had not got it. He was proud of her, and would have liked that she should be nice to him. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve been an awful fool.... I’ve told Aunt Aggie about Philip.” Millie stopped and stood, staring at him. “You’ve told Aunt Aggie?” she cried furiously. “Yes,” he repeated, blushing, as he always did when he was scolded. “Oh! you _silly_ ass!” She was so deeply exasperated that she could scarcely speak. “You SILLY ass! I might have guessed it—And yet all the time I’d hoped that at least.... And Aunt Aggie of all people!... and now Katherine and mother! “Oh, you chattering, blundering idiot!” She walked forward at a furious pace; he plunged after her. “That’s all right,” he said, “when you’ve done cursing you’ll be cooler. I _know_ I’m an ass, but Aunt Aggie irritated me and got it all out of me. Aunt Aggie’s the devil!” “Of course she is, and _of course_ you’ll choose her out of everyone, when she _hates_ Philip and would wring his neck to-morrow if her hands were strong enough.” “Well, I hate him too,” said Henry. “Oh, no you don’t,” answered Millie, “you think you do. You’re proud of thinking you hate him, and you lose your temper because he laughs at you, and then you throw books at his head, but you don’t really hate him.” “How do you know I throw books at his head?” “Oh, you don’t suppose we, any of us, believed that story about you and Philip having a kind of game in the drawing-room just for fun.... Father was furious about it, and said the mirror was unreplaceable, and the sooner you went to Cambridge and stopped there the better—and I think so too. Oh! you’ve just spoilt everything!”