She hoped Agatha wouldn’t mind. It couldn’t possibly hurt her. _He_ couldn’t. The darling couldn’t hurt a fly; he could only hurt himself. And if he got really bad, why then, of course, they would have to leave Sarratt End. He would have, she said sadly, to go away somewhere. But not yet—oh, not yet; he wasn’t bad enough for that. She would keep him with her up to the last possible moment—the last possible moment. Agatha could understand, couldn’t she? Agatha did indeed. Milly Powell smiled her desperate white smile, and went on; always with her air of appeal to Agatha. That was why she wanted to be near her. It was awful not to be near somebody who understood, who would understand him. For Agatha would understand—wouldn’t she?—that to a certain extent he must be given in to? _That_—apart from Agatha—was why they had chosen Sarratt End. It was the sort of place—wasn’t it?—where you would go if you didn’t want people to get at you; where (Milly’s very voice became furtive as she explained it) you could hide. His idea—his last—seemed to be that something _was_ trying to get at him. No, not people. Something worse, something terrible. It was always after him. The most piteous thing about him—piteous but adorable—was that he came to her—to _her_, imploring her to hide him. And so she had hidden him here. Agatha took in her friend’s high courage as she looked at the eyes where fright barely fluttered under the poised suspense. She approved of the plan. It appealed to her by its sheer audacity. She murmured that if there were anything that she could do, Milly had only to come to her. Oh, well, Milly _had_ come. What she wanted Agatha to do—if she saw him and he should say anything about it—was simply to take the line that he was safe. Agatha said that was the line she did take. She wasn’t going to let herself think, and Milly mustn’t think—not for a moment—that he wasn’t, that there was anything to be afraid of. “Anything to be afraid of _here_. That’s my point,” said Milly. “Mine is that here or anywhere—wherever _he_ is—there mustn’t be any fear. How can he get better if we keep him wrapped in it? You’re _not_ afraid. You’re not afraid.” Persistent, invincible affirmation was part of her method, her secret. Milly replied a little wearily (she knew nothing about the method). “I haven’t time to be afraid,” she said. “And as long as you’re not—” “It’s you who matter,” Agatha cried. “You’re so near him. Don’t you realize what it means to be so near?” Milly smiled sadly, tenderly. (As if she didn’t know!) “My dear, that’s all that keeps me going. I’ve got to make him feel that he’s protected.” “He _is_ protected,” said Agatha. Already she was drawing her charmed circle round him. “As long as I hold out. If I give in he’s done for.” “You mustn’t think it. You mustn’t say it!” “But—I know it. Oh, my dear! I’m all he’s got.”