mother’s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds.
“From Shakespeare’s tomb!” exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter.
“Thank God, Katharine!” she exclaimed. “Thank God!” she repeated.
“You’ve come back?” said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace.
Although she recognized her mother’s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare’s tomb.
“Nothing else matters in the world!” Mrs. Hilbery continued. “Names aren’t everything; it’s what we feel that’s everything. I didn’t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn’t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so.”
“You knew it?” Katharine repeated her mother’s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. “How did you know it?” She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother’s cloak.
“The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times—dinner-parties—talking about books—the way he came into the room—your voice when you spoke of him.”
Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely:
“I’m not going to marry William. And then there’s Cassandra———”
“Yes, there’s Cassandra,” said Mrs. Hilbery. “I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine,”
