There are many families, of course, to whom the rebellion or disgrace of one of its members would mean but little, so slightly had been felt before the dependence of one soul upon another. But with the Trenchards that dependence had been _everything_, the outside world had been a fantastic show, unreal and unneeded: as the pieces of a pictured puzzle fit one into another, so had the Trenchards been interwoven and dependent ... only in England, perhaps, had such a blind and superior insularity been possible ... and it may be that this was to be, in all the records of history, the last of such a kind—“_Nil nisi bonum_”.... To Philip these summer days were darkened by his consciousness of Mrs. Trenchard. When he looked back over the months since he had known her, he could remember no very dramatic conversation that he had had with her, nothing tangible anywhere. She had been always pleasant and agreeable to him, and, at times, he had tried to tell himself that, after all, he might ultimately be happy ‘eaten up by her,’ as Jonah was by the whale. Then, with a little shiver, he knew the truth—that increasingly, as the days passed, he both hated and feared her. She had caught his will in her strong hands and was crushing it into pulp. He made one last effort to assert himself, even as he had tried his strength against Katherine, against Henry, against Aunt Aggie, against old Mr. Trenchard. This little conversation that he had in the Garth garden with Mrs. Trenchard upon one of those lovely summer evenings was of the simplest and most undramatic fashion. Nevertheless it marked the end of his struggle; he always afterwards looked back upon those ten minutes as the most frightening experience of his life. Mrs. Trenchard, in a large loose hat and gauntleted gardening gloves, made a fine cheerful, reposeful figure as she walked slowly up and down the long lawn; she asked Philip to walk with her; the sun flung her broad flat shadow like a stain upon the bright grass. They had talked a little, and then he had suddenly, with a tug of alarm at his heart, determined that he would break his chains. He looked up at her placid eyes. “I think,” he said—his voice was not quite steady—“that Katherine and I will live somewhere in the North after our marriage. Quite frankly I don’t think Glebeshire suits me.” “And Katie,” said Mrs. Trenchard, smiling. “Katie ... she—she’ll like the North when she’s tried it for a little.” “You’ll rob us of her?” “Not altogether, of course.” “She’ll be very miserable away from Glebeshire ... very miserable. I’ve seen such a nice little house—Colve Hall—only two miles from here—on the Rafiel road. I don’t think you must take Katie from Glebeshire, Philip.” That was a challenge. Their eyes met. His dropped. “I think it will be better for her to be away after we are married.” “Why? Do you hate us all?”