Agatha’s voice recalled her. “Milly, I think you know Mr. Lanyon.” Rodney, in acknowledging Milly’s presence, did not look at her. He saw nothing there but Agatha’s face, which showed him at last the expression that to his eyes had always been latent in it, the look of the tragic, hidden soul of terror that he had divined in her. He saw her at last as he had known he should some day see her. Terror was no longer there, but it had possessed her; it had passed through her and destroyed that other look she had from her lifted mouth and hair, the look of a thing borne on wings. Now, with her wings beaten, with her white face and haggard eyes, he saw her as a flying thing tracked down and trampled under the feet of the pursuer. He saw it in one flash as he stood there holding Milly’s hand. Milly’s face had no significance for him. He didn’t see it. When at last he looked at her his eyes questioned her; they demanded an account from her of what he saw. For Agatha, Milly’s face, prepared as it was for leave-taking, remained charged with meaning; it refused to divest itself of reproach and of the incredulity that challenged her. Agatha rose to it. “You’re not going, Milly, just because he’s come? You needn’t.” Milly _was_ going. He rose to it also. If Mrs. Powell _would_ go like that—in that distressing way—she must at least let him walk back with her. Agatha wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t seen Mrs. Powell for ages. He had risen to such a height that Milly was bewildered by him. She let him walk back with her to the Farm and a little way beyond it. Agatha said good-bye to Milly at the garden gate and watched them go. Then she went up into her own room. He was gone so long that she thought he was never coming back again. She didn’t want him to come back just yet, but she knew she was not afraid to see him. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why, in spite of her message, he had come, nor why he had come by an earlier train than usual; she supposed he must have started before her message could have reached him. All that, his coming or his not coming, mattered so little now. For now the whole marvellous thing was clear to her. She knew the secret of the gift. She saw luminously, almost transparently, the way it worked. Milly had shown her. Milly knew; Milly had seen; she had put her finger on the flaw. It was not fear; Milly had been right there too. Until the moment when Harding Powell had begun to get at her Agatha had never known what fear felt like. It was the strain of mortality in her love for Rodney; the hidden thing, unforeseen and unacknowledged, working its work in the darkness. It had been there all the time, undermining her secret, sacred places. It had made the first breach through which the fear that was not _her_ fear had entered. She could tell the very moment when it happened.