Katherine, with hands that trembled, had opened the book. She found the piece of paper, saw the words, and then, in a sort of dreaming bewilderment, read to the bottom of the old printed page. “Mr. Collins thus addressed her: “When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first—” She did not turn the page; for a moment she waited, her mind quite empty of any concentrated thought, her eyes seeing nothing but the shining, glittering expanse of the Mirror. Very quickly, using a gold pencil that hung on to her watch chain, she wrote below his name: “Yes. Katherine.” “Let me see the book, my dear,” said Aunt Aggie. “You must know, Mr. Mark, that I care very little for novels. There is so much to do in this world, so many people that need care, so many things that want attention, that I think one is scarcely justified in spending the precious time over stories. But I own Miss Austen is a memory—a really precious memory to me. Those little simple stories have their charm still, Mr. Mark.... Yes.... Thank you, my dear.” She took the book from Katherine, and began very slowly to turn over the pages, bending upon Miss Austen’s labours exactly the look of kindly patronage that she would have bent upon that lady herself had she been present. Katherine glanced at Philip, half rose in her chair, and then sat down again. She felt, as she waited for the dreadful moment to pass, a sudden perception of the family—until this moment they had not occurred to her. She saw her mother, her father, her grandfather, her aunts, Henry, Millie. Let this affair be suddenly flung upon them as a result of Aunt Aggie’s horrified discovery and the tumult would be, indeed, terrible. The silence in the room, during those moments, almost forced her to cry out. Had Philip not been there she would have rushed to her aunt, torn the book from her hands, and surrendered to the avalanche. Aunt Aggie paused—she peered forward over the page. With a little cry Katherine stood up, her knees trembling, her eyes dimmed, as though the room were filled with fog. “I doubt very much,” said Aunt Aggie, “whether I could read it now. It would seem strangely old-fashioned, I daresay, I’m sure to a modern young man like yourself, Mr. Mark.” Philip took the book from her; he opened it, read Katherine’s answer, laid the volume very carefully upon the table. “I can assure, Miss Trenchard,” he said, “a glance is enough to assure me that ‘Pride and Prejudice’ is and always will be my favourite novel.” Katherine moved to the table, picked up the book, and slipped the paper from the leaves into her belt. For an instant her hand touched Philip’s.