But for a moment her eyes had caught Philip’s eyes. They exchanged the strangest look. Hers of triumph, sarcastic, ironic, amazingly triumphant, his of a dull, hopeless abandonment and submission. Her attack at last, after long months of struggle, had succeeded. He was beaten. She continued her letter. CHAPTER IV THE WILD NIGHT Ten minutes later Katherine and Philip were alone in the garden. There were signs that the gorgeous summer afternoon was to be caught into thunder. Beyond the garden-wall a black cloud crept toward the trees, and the sunlight that flooded the lawn seemed garish now, as though it had been painted in shrill colours on to the green; the air was intensely hot; the walls of the house glittered like metal. They stood under the great oak bobbing in front of them. “Well,” said Philip at last, “that’s the end, Katie dear—your mother’s a wonderful woman.” Katherine was silent. He went on: “That was my last hope. I suppose I’d been counting on it more than I ought. You’d have come with me, I know, if they’d turned me out? Not a bit of it. Your mother’s a wonderful woman, I repeat.” He paused, looked into her eyes, seemed to be startled by the pain in them. “My dear, don’t mind. She only wants to keep you because she can’t get on without you—and I shall settle down all right in a bit. What a fuss, after all, we’ve been making.” Katherine said: “Tell me, Phil, have there been times, lately, in the last week, when you’ve thought of running away, going back to Russia? Tell me honestly.” “Yes,” he answered, “there have—many times. But I always waited to see how things turned out. And then to-day when the moment _did_ come at last, I saw quite clearly that I couldn’t leave you _ever_—that anything was better than being without you—_anything_—So that’s settled.” “And you’ve thought,” Katherine pursued steadily, “of what it will be after we’re married. Mother always wanting me. Your having to be in a place that you hate. And even if we went to live somewhere else, of Mother always keeping her hand on us, never letting go, never allowing you to be free, knowing about Anna—their _all_ knowing—you’ve faced it all?” “I’ve faced it all,” he answered, trying to laugh. “I can’t leave you, Katie, and that’s the truth. And if I’ve got to have your mother and the family as well, why, then, I’ve got to have them.... But, oh! my dear, how your mother despises me! Well, I suppose I _am_ a weak young man! And I shall forget Russia in time.... _I’ve got to!_” he ended, almost under his breath. She looked at him queerly. “All right,” she said, “I know now what we’ve got to do.” “What do you mean?” he asked. “Wait. I must go and speak to Uncle Tim. I shall be an hour. Be ready for me out here under this tree in an hour’s time. It will be seven o’clock.” “What do you mean?” he asked her again, but she had gone.