she asked impulsively, “where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?”
Katharine recollected with difficulty.
“To Mary Datchet’s,” she remembered.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. “I had my little romance—my little speculation.” She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes.
“I'm not in love with Ralph Denham,” she said.
“Don’t marry unless you’re in love!” said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. “But,” she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, “aren’t there different ways, Katharine—different———?”
“We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free,” Katharine continued.
“To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street.” Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called “kind letters” from the pen of her sister-in-law.
“Yes. Or to stay away in the country,” Katharine concluded.
Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window.
“What a comfort he was in that shop—how he took me and found the ruins at once—how safe I felt with him———”
“Safe? Oh no, he’s fearfully rash—he’s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn’t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him.”
“Ah, he has a mother?” Mrs. Hilbery inquired.
