of the three found for the moment anything to say. Years of training in a drawing-room came at length to Katharine’s help, and she said something suitable, at the same moment withdrawing her hand from the table because she perceived that it trembled. William agreed effusively; Denham corroborated him, speaking in rather high-pitched tones; they thrust aside the plans, and drew nearer to the fireplace.
“I'd rather live here than anywhere in the whole of London,” said Denham.
(“And I’ve got nowhere to live”) Katharine thought, as she agreed aloud.
“You could get rooms here, no doubt, if you wanted to,” Rodney replied.
“But I’m just leaving London for good—I’ve taken that cottage I was telling you about.” The announcement seemed to convey very little to either of his hearers.
“Indeed?—that’s sad. . .. You must give me your address. But you won’t cut yourself off altogether, surely———”
“You'll be moving too, I suppose,” Denham remarked. William showed such visible signs of floundering that Katharine collected herself and asked:
“Where is the cottage you’ve taken?”
In answering her, Denham turned and looked at her. As their eyes met, she realized for the first time that she was talking to Ralph Denham, and she remembered, without recalling any details, that she had been speaking of him quite lately, and that she had reason to think ill of him. What Mary had said she could not remember, but she felt that there was a mass of knowledge in her mind which she had not had time to examine—knowledge now lying on the far side of a gulf. But her agitation flashed the queerest lights upon her past. She must get through the matter in hand, and then think it out in quiet. She bent her mind to follow what Ralph was saying.
