Catherine got up, and began walking up and down the small angle of lawn where they sat, bordering the deep flower-bed. All June was in flower there, just as in herself, to the outside view, all June seemed to be flowering. It was no wonder that Maud thought that. But all the emotional baggage which she had consistently thrown away all her life seemed to her to be coming back now in bales, returned to her by some dreadful dead-letter office--at least, she had hoped it was dead--and a sudden bitterness, born of perplexity, invaded her. "Oh yes; everybody always thinks one is happy," she said, "if one has good digestion and a passable appearance, and heaps of things to do, and the enjoyment in doing them which I have, and as much money as one wants. But all these things only give one pleasure. Do you think I am happy? Do you really think so?" Maud dropped her eyes. When talk deepens it is well to talk in the dark, or to talk without the distraction of sight. "No, I don't think you are," she said, "if I look deep down." "Then you are two people," said Catherine rather fiercely--"the superficial Maud who just now said I had all I wanted, implying happiness, and another Maud, who has to be fished for." That was less personal, less intricate, and Maud looked up again, smiling. "Quite true," she said. "But so are you two Catherines; so is everybody who is worth anything. I used to think you an ideally happy person, because, as far as one could see, you got all you wanted. I imagine it was what you call the superficial Maud who thought that; I don't think the deep-down 'you' is happy." Maud paused a moment, feeling that her sister-in-law was hanging on her words. It did not seem to her that in this claim for unhappiness, so to speak, that Catherine had made she had in her mind the drug-taking: it was something different to that. Only lately, too, had she herself been conscious of this "deeper Maud," which yet did not in the least affect the workings of the more superficial self. The joy of morning and evening, the depression and irritation of east wind, the rapture of catching sea-trout, went on, on the surface, just as keenly as ever, but an interior life had awoke. "I used to envy you so, Cathy," she said--"at least, I used to envy lots of things about you, when I thought that the 'you' which all the world knew and admired so was all there was. But now I believe that there is a greater 'you' than that, and that a realer 'me' than the ordinary thing perceives it. And since you ask me, I don't think that essential part of you is happy, any more than Thurso is happy." Catherine sat down again, and thought over this before she answered. "I would give, or give up, a great deal to make Thurso happy," she said with absolute sincerity. "But I get on his nerves." Maud looked up, waiting for more--waiting for the completion of the sentence which she had heard not so long ago on Thurso's lips. It came. "And he bores me," said Catherine.