“The lady you speak of--your friend--is she here?” She started. “_Here?_” “In New York, I mean?” “No; no; she’s not here,” Kate cried precipitately. “That’s the reason why I offered to come--” “I see.” She thought she caught a faint note of relief in his voice. “She wished you to consult me?” “Yes.” “And she’s done everything--everything, of course, to stop this abomination?” “Oh, everything ... everything.” “Except to tell her daughter?” She made another sign of assent. Dr. Arklow cleared his throat, and declared with emphasis: “It is her duty to tell her daughter.” “Yes,” Kate Clephane faltered. She got to her feet and looked about her blindly for the door. “She must tell her daughter,” the Rector repeated with rising vehemence. “Such a shocking situation must be avoided; avoided at all costs.” “Yes,” she repeated. She was on the threshold now; automatically she held out her hand. “Unless,” the Rector continued uncertainly, his eyes upon her, “she is absolutely convinced that less harm will come to all concerned if she has the courage to keep silence--always.” There was a pause. “As far as I can see into the blackness of it,” he went on, gaining firmness, “the whole problem turns on that. I may be mistaken; perhaps I am. But when a man has looked for thirty or forty years into pretty nearly every phase of human suffering and error, as men of my cloth have to do, he comes to see that there must be adjustments ... adjustments in the balance of evil. Compromises, politicians would call them. Well, I’m not afraid of the word.” He stood leaning against the jamb of the door; her hand was on the doorknob, and she listened with lowered head. “The thing in the world I’m most afraid of is sterile pain,” he said after a moment. “I should never want any one to be the cause of that.” She lifted her eyes with an effort, and saw in his face the same look of understanding she had caught there for a moment while she talked with him at the Drovers’ after dinner. “Sterile pain--” she murmured. She had crossed the threshold now; she felt that he was holding out his hand. His face once more wore the expression of worldly benevolence that was as much the badge of his profession as his dress. After all, she perceived, he was glad that she had said nothing more definite, glad that their talk was safely over. Yet she had caught that other look. “If your friend were here; if there were anything I could do for her, or say to her--anything to help--” “Oh, she’s not here; she won’t be here,” Kate repeated. “In that case--” Again she caught the relief in his voice. “But I will tell her--tell her what you’ve said.” She was aware that they were shaking hands, and that he was averting his apprehensive eyes from hers. “For God’s sake,” the eyes seemed to entreat her, “let’s get through with this before you betray yourself--if there’s anything further to betray.”