She took it up, saw that it was addressed to her mother, and realised, for the first time, what this would mean to them all. She saw then—THE OLD ONES—Grandfather, Mother, Father, Aunt Sarah, Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty. She was sorry for them, but she knew, as she stood there, that she did not care, really, whether they were hurt or no. She felt her own freedom descend upon her, there in Katie’s room, like a golden, flaming cloud. This was the moment for which, all her life, she had been waiting. The Old Ones had tried to keep them and tie them down, but the day of the Old Ones was past, their power was broken. It was the New Generation that mattered—Katherine and Philip, Millie and Henry, and all their kind; it was _their_ world and _their_ dominion— She suddenly, alone there, with the note in her hand, danced a little dance, the candle-flame flickering in the breeze and Katherine’s white, neat bed so cold and tidy. She was not hard, she was not cruel—her own time would come when she would cry for sympathy and would not find it, and must set her teeth because her day was past ... now was her day—She seized it fiercely. Very quietly she went downstairs.... She opened the drawing-room door: as she entered all their eyes met her and she knew at once, as she saw Henry’s, that he was expecting her announcement. She looked across at her mother. “Katherine’s room’s empty,” she said. “There’s no one there at all.” She hesitated a moment, then added: “There was this note for you, Mother, on her dressing-table.” She went across the room and gave it to her mother. Her mother took it; no one spoke. Mrs. Trenchard read it; for a dreadful moment she thought that she was going to give way before them all, was going to cry out, to scream, to rush wildly into the road to stop the fugitives, or slap Aunt Aggie’s face. For a dreadful moment the battle of her whole life to obtain the mastery of herself was almost defeated—then, blindly, obeying some impulse with which she could not reason, of which she was scarcely conscious, some strong call from a far country, she won a triumphant victory. “It’s from Katherine!” she said. “The child’s mad. She’s gone up to London.” “London!” George Trenchard cried. “London!” cried Aunt Aggie. “Yes. With Philip. They have caught the eight train. They are to be married to-morrow. ‘Because I would not let Philip go,’ she says. But she’s mad—” For an instant she gripped the mantelpiece behind her. She could hear them, only from a distance, as though their voices were muffled by the roar of sea or wind, their exclamations. Her husband was, of course, useless. She despised him. He cried: “They must be stopped! They must be stopped. This is impossible! That fellow Mark—one might have guessed! They must be stopped. At once! At once!” “They can’t be.” She heard her voice far away with the others. “They can’t be stopped. The train left at eight o’clock, nearly half an hour ago. There’s nothing to be done.”