The girl sat down beside her on the bed. “I want it to be our secret, remember--just yours and mine--till he comes next week. He can’t get away before.” Ah, thank God for that! The mother remembered now that Anne had told her this during their first talk--the talk of which, at the time, no details had remained in her shattered mind. Now, as she listened, those details came back, bit by bit, phantasmagorically mingled. No one was to be told of the engagement; no, not even Nollie Tresselton; not till Chris came to New York. And that was not to be for another week. He could not get away sooner, and Anne had decreed that he must see her mother before their betrothal was made public. “I suppose I’m absurdly out-of-date--but I want it to be like that,” the girl had said; and Kate Clephane understood that it was out of regard for her, with the desire to “situate” her again, and once for all, as the head of the house, that her daughter had insisted on this almost obsolete formality, had stipulated that her suitor should ask Mrs. Clephane’s consent in the solemn old-fashioned way. The girl bent nearer, her radiance veiled in tenderness. “If you knew, mother, how I want you to like him--” ah, the familiar cruel words!--“You did, didn’t you, in old times, when you used to know him so well? Though he says he was just a silly conceited boy then, and wonders that anybody could endure his floods of nonsense....” Ah, God, how long would it go on? Kate Clephane again reached out her hand, and this time clasped her daughter’s with a silent nod of assent. Speech was impossible. She moistened her parched lips, but no sound came from them; and suddenly she felt everything slipping away from her in a great gulf of oblivion. “Mother! You’re ill--you’re over-tired....” She was just aware, through the twilight of her faintness, that Anne’s arm was under her, that Anne was ringing the bell and moistening her forehead. BOOK III. XV. Fantastic shapes of heavy leaf-shadows on blinding whiteness. Torrents of blue and lilac and crimson foaming over the branches of unknown trees. Azure distances, snow-peaks, silver reefs, and an unbroken glare of dead-white sunshine merging into a moonlight hardly whiter. Was there never any night, real, black, obliterating, in all these dazzling latitudes in which two desperate women had sought refuge?