“Of course there isn’t,” said her mother. “Let’s keep to the main issue. This baby’s quite beside the point. Mrs. Theobald will do nothing, and it’s no concern of ours.” “It will make a difference in the money, surely,” said he. “No, dear; very little. Poor Charles provided for every kind of contingency in his will. The money will come to you and Harriet, as Irma’s guardians.” “Good. Does the Italian get anything?” “He will get all hers. But you know what that is.” “Good. So those are our tactics--to tell no one about the baby, not even Miss Abbott.” “Most certainly this is the proper course,” said Mrs. Herriton, preferring “course” to “tactics” for Harriet’s sake. “And why ever should we tell Caroline?” “She was so mixed up in the affair.” “Poor silly creature. The less she hears about it the better she will be pleased. I have come to be very sorry for Caroline. She, if any one, has suffered and been penitent. She burst into tears when I told her a little, only a little, of that terrible letter. I never saw such genuine remorse. We must forgive her and forget. Let the dead bury their dead. We will not trouble her with them.” Philip saw that his mother was scarcely logical. But there was no advantage in saying so. “Here beginneth the New Life, then. Do you remember, mother, that was what we said when we saw Lilia off?” “Yes, dear; but now it is really a New Life, because we are all at accord. Then you were still infatuated with Italy. It may be full of beautiful pictures and churches, but we cannot judge a country by anything but its men.” “That is quite true,” he said sadly. And as the tactics were now settled, he went out and took an aimless and solitary walk. By the time he came back two important things had happened. Irma had been told of her mother’s death, and Miss Abbott, who had called for a subscription, had been told also. Irma had wept loudly, had asked a few sensible questions and a good many silly ones, and had been content with evasive answers. Fortunately the school prize-giving was at hand, and that, together with the prospect of new black clothes, kept her from meditating on the fact that Lilia, who had been absent so long, would now be absent for ever. “As for Caroline,” said Mrs. Herriton, “I was almost frightened. She broke down utterly. She cried even when she left the house. I comforted her as best I could, and I kissed her. It is something that the breach between her and ourselves is now entirely healed.” “Did she ask no questions--as to the nature of Lilia’s death, I mean?” “She did. But she has a mind of extraordinary delicacy. She saw that I was reticent, and she did not press me. You see, Philip, I can say to you what I could not say before Harriet. Her ideas are so crude. Really we do not want it known in Sawston that there is a baby. All peace and comfort would be lost if people came inquiring after it.”