She hesitated a moment; then she began. It was not the story she had meant to tell; she had hardly opened her lips before she understood that it would be as impossible to tell that to Fred Landers as to Anne. For an instant, as he welcomed her to the familiar house, so full of friendly memories, she had had the illusion of nearness to him, the sense of a brotherly reassuring presence. But as she began to speak of Chris every one else in her new life except her daughter became remote and indistinct to her. She supposed it could not be otherwise. She had chosen to cast her lot elsewhere, and now, coming back after so many years, she found the sense of intimacy and confidence irreparably destroyed. What did she really know of the present Fred Landers, or he of her? All she found herself able to say was that when she had heard that Anne meant to marry Chris Fenno she had thought it her duty to try to prevent the marriage; and that the girl had guessed her interference and could not forgive her. She elaborated on this, lingering over the relatively insignificant details of her successive talks with her daughter in the attempt to delay the moment when Landers should begin to question her. She saw that he was deeply disturbed, but perhaps not altogether sorry. He had never liked Chris, she knew, and the news of the engagement was clearly a shock to him. He said he had seen and heard nothing of Fenno since Anne and her mother had left. Landers, who could not recall that either Horace Maclew or Lilla had ever mentioned him, had concluded that the young man was no longer a member of their household, and probably not even in Baltimore. If he were, Lilla would have been sure to keep her hold on him; he was too useful a diner and dancer to be lost sight of--and much more in Lilla’s line, one would have fancied, than in Anne’s. Kate Clephane winced at the unconscious criticism. “He gave me his word that he would go,” she said with a faint sigh of relief. Fred Landers continued to lean meditatively against the chimney-piece. “You said nothing at all to Anne herself at the time?” he asked, after another interval. “No. Perhaps I was wrong; but I was afraid to. I felt I didn’t know her well enough--yet.” Instantly she saw how he would interpret her avowal, and her colour rose again. She must have felt, then, that she knew Major Fenno better; the inference was inevitable. “You found it easier to speak to Fenno?” She hesitated. “I cared so much less for what he felt.” “Of course,” he sighed. “And you knew damaging things about him? Evidently, since he broke the engagement when you told him to.” Again she faltered. “I knew something of his past life--enough to be sure he wasn’t the kind of husband for Anne. I made him understand it. That’s all.” “Ah. Well, I’m not surprised. I suspected he was trying for her, and I own I hated the idea. But now I suppose there’s no help for it--” “No help?” She looked up in dismay.