Millie had made friends with a number of independent London ladies, who thought Women’s Suffrage far beyond either cleanliness or Godliness. She talked to Henry about her companions, who hoped for a new City in no very distant future, very much as Henry’s friends at Cambridge did. Only, the two Cities were very different. Even Katherine and Philip were concerned in some Society for teaching poor women how to manage their children, and Philip was also interested in a new Art, in which young painters produced medical charts showing the internal arrangements of the stomach, and called them “Spring on the Heath” or “Rome—Midday.” And through all the middle-class families in England these things were occurring. “Something is coming....” “Something is coming....” “Look out....” “Look out....” This was in 1903. Henry, Millie, Katherine had still eleven years to wait for their revolution, but in at least one corner of happy England the work of preparation had been begun. The door opened, and Henry’s reveries were interrupted by the entrance of Millie. He started, and then jumped up on seeing her; for a moment, under the power of his thoughts, he had forgotten his news; now he stammered with the importance of it. “Millie!” he cried. “Hullo, Henry,” she said, smiling. “We expected you hours ago.” He dropped his voice. “I’ve been round to see Katie. Look here, Millie, it’s most important. She’s coming here to see Mother.” Millie glanced behind. They carried on then the rest of their conversation in whispers. “To see Mother?” “Yes. She can’t bear waiting any longer. She felt that she _must_ be here on Grandfather’s birthday.” “But—but—” “Yes, I know. But she thinks that if she sees Mother alone and she can show her that nothing’s changed—” “But _everything’s_ changed. She doesn’t _know_ how different Mother is.” “No, but she thinks if they both _see_ one another—at any rate she’s going to try.” “Now?” “Yes. In a few minutes. I’ll go up and just tell Mother that there’s a caller in the drawing-room. Then leave them alone together—” Millie sighed. “It would be too lovely for anything if it really happened. But it won’t—it can’t. Mother’s extraordinary. I don’t believe she ever loved Katie at all, at least only as an idea. She’ll _never_ forgive her—_never_—and she’ll always hate Philip.” “How’s Grandfather?” “Very bad. He says he _will_ come down to-night, although it’ll probably kill him. However, now they’ve arranged that his presents shall be in the little drawing-room upstairs. Then he won’t have so far to go. He’s awfully bad, really, and he’s as hard about Katie as Mother is. He won’t have her name mentioned. It’s simply, _I_ believe, that it’s terrible to him to think that she could love Philip better than him!” “And how’s everyone else?”