“Most certainly he knows nothing,” she continued. “Why, he does not even realize that Varden lives in our house! We are perfectly safe—unless Aunt Emily were to die. Perhaps then—but we are perfectly safe for the present.” “When she did mention the matter, what did she say?” “We had a long talk,” said Agnes quietly. “She told me nothing new—nothing new about the past, I mean. But we had a long talk about the present. I think” —and her voice grew displeased again—“that you have been both wrong and foolish in refusing to make up your quarrel with Aunt Emily.” “Wrong and wise, I should say.” “It isn’t to be expected that she—so much older and so sensitive—can make the first step. But I know she’d he glad to see you.” “As far as I can remember that final scene in the garden, I accused her of ‘forgetting what other people were like.’ She’ll never pardon me for saying that.” Agnes was silent. To her the phrase was meaningless. Yet Rickie was correct: Mrs. Failing had resented it more than anything. “At all events,” she suggested, “you might go and see her.” “No, dear. Thank you, no.” “She is, after all—” She was going to say “your father’s sister,” but the expression was scarcely a happy one, and she turned it into, “She is, after all, growing old and lonely.” “So are we all!” he cried, with a lapse of tone that was now characteristic in him. “She oughtn’t to be so isolated from her proper relatives.” There was a moment’s silence. Still playing with the book, he remarked, “You forget, she’s got her favourite nephew.” A bright red flush spread over her cheeks. “What is the matter with you this afternoon?” she asked. “I should think you’d better go for a walk.” “Before I go, tell me what is the matter with you.” He also flushed. “Why do you want me to make it up with my aunt?” “Because it’s right and proper.” “So? Or because she is old?” “I don’t understand,” she retorted. But her eyes dropped. His sudden suspicion was true: she was legacy hunting. “Agnes, dear Agnes,” he began with passing tenderness, “how can you think of such things? You behave like a poor person. We don’t want any money from Aunt Emily, or from any one else. It isn’t virtue that makes me say it: we are not tempted in that way: we have as much as we want already.” “For the present,” she answered, still looking aside. “There isn’t any future,” he cried in a gust of despair. “Rickie, what do you mean?” What did he mean? He meant that the relations between them were fixed—that there would never be an influx of interest, nor even of passion. To the end of life they would go on beating time, and this was enough for her. She was content with the daily round, the common task, performed indifferently. But he had dreamt of another helpmate, and of other things.