Nancy, complaining of fatigue and proudly reticent about her pain, retired to bed, and an uncomfortable trio sat round the supper-table. Edward Webb was jerkily conversational, Grace was sullen and aggrieved, Theresa had red eyes. She and Grace had quarrelled. She had been called "sneak," as might have been foreseen, and she had answered, in the street, with furious little hands and feet, until, despairing of finding satisfaction in these assaults, she had sunk to the kerbstone, uttering passionate, half-articulate sobs of rage. Grace had walked on loftily, not even interested in her tears. With no one but a stolid policeman--would that it had been Bill!--to look at her, it seemed a waste of time to sit there longer, so she, too, walked home, pitying herself and hating Grace; but it was her father on whom she turned her hatred when she met Grace crying on the stairs, contorting her still lovely face. It was terrible to see her in distress, and Theresa asked forgiveness with fleeting touches of her hands. "Tell me--oh, do tell me!" she whispered. "I'm sorry, Grace." "He is trying to part us, but he cannot do it," she said, and leaned her head against the pillar of the banisters. Theresa was impressed. "Do you really love him?" she asked. "Love him! Oh, what's the good of talking to a child like you?" Curiosity overcame Theresa's pride. "I'm nearly twelve, and I've read a lot of books, you know." "I'll tell you. I must tell someone. He says we may be friends; but there must be no foolishness." "That's flowers," Theresa said. "And I can have him to tea if I like. Wouldn't it be stupid?" Theresa failed her here. "Why?" she said. "Oh, if you can't see that----" Grace went into the bedroom and locked the door. Theresa sat on the stairs till supper-time and divided her sympathies fairly, but Edward Webb was conscious of the first serious revolt. "I believe I did more harm than good," he moaned as he lay in bed. "I knew you would," Nancy answered, and tears of utter weakness rolled down her cheeks. CHAPTER X There came an early April day when Alexander walked from school and felt that, though he was alone, a stranger went with him. Thus companioned, he passed through the streets of the little town, out on to the wild moorland country, and so to a pass between the hills and a pathway worn by his own feet. The sun was very bright and warm, and he sat down by a tarn where the wind blew the rushes. Pleasant shivers of cold mingled with the warmth on his back, and in his throat there was an exultant aching. He did not know himself; he was a new person, for he was drinking deep of a heady cup. He was to go to Oxford in the autumn.