in literature； that is—”
“Possibly； in the case of art。 But in the case of people it
may be—” she hesitated。
“Have you no personal experience of it？” he asked； letting
his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment。
“I believe it’s influenced me enormously；” she said； in
the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some
view just presented to them； “but in my life there’s so
little scope for it；” she added。 She reviewed her daily
task； the perpetual demands upon her for good sense；
selfcontrol； and accuracy in a house containing a romantic
mother。 Ah； but her romance wasn’t that romance。
It was a desire； an echo； a sound； she could drape it in
color； see it in form； hear it in music； but not in words；
no； never in words。 She sighed； teased by desires so incoherent；
so inmunicable。
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“But isn’t it curious；” William resumed； “that you should
neither feel it for me； nor I for you？”
Katharine agreed that it was curious—very； but even
more curious to her was the fact that she was discussing
the question with William。 It revealed possibilities which
opened a prospect of a new relationship altogether。 Somehow
it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand
what she had never understood； and in her gratitude
she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help
him； too—sisterly； save for one pang； not quite to be
subdued； that for him she was without romance。
“I think you might be very happy with some one you
loved in that way；” she said。
“You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge
of the person one loves？”
He asked the question formally； to protect himself from
the sort of personality which he dreaded。 The whole situation
needed the most careful management lest it should
degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition
such as the scene； which he could never think of
without shame； upon the heath among the dead leaves。
And yet each sentence brought him relief。 He was ing
to understand something or other about his own desires
hitherto undefined by him； the source of his difficulty
with Katharine。 The wish to hurt her； which had
urged him to begin； had pletely left him； and he felt
that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be
sure。 He must take his time。 There were so many things
that he could not say without the greatest difficulty—
that name； for example； Cassandra。 Nor could he move
his eyes from a certain spot； a fiery glen surrounded by
high mountains； in the heart of the coals。 He waited in
suspense for Katharine to continue。 She had said that he
might be very happy with some one he loved in that way。
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t last with you；” she resumed。
“I can imagine a certain sort of person—” she
paused； she was aware that he was listening with the
greatest intentness； and that his formality was merely
the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort。 There was
some person then—some woman—who could it be？
Cassandra？ Ah； possibly—
“A person；” she added； speaking in the most matterof
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fact tone she could mand； “like Cassandra Otway； for
instance。 Cassandra is the most interesting of the
Otways—with the exception of Henry。 Even so； I like
Cassandra better。 She has more than mere cleverness。 She
is a character—a person by herself。”
“Those dreadful insects！” burst from William； with a
nervous laugh； and a little spasm went through him as
Katharine noticed。 It was Cassandra then。 Automatically
and dully she replied； “You could insist that she confined
herself to—to—something else… 。 But she cares for
music； I believe she writes poetry； and there can be no
doubt that she has a peculiar charm—”
She ceased； as if defining to herself this peculiar charm。
After a moment’s silence William jerked out：
“I thought her affectionate？”
“Extremely affectionate。 She worships Henry。 When you
think what a house that is—Uncle Francis always in one
mood or another—”
“Dear； dear； dear；” William muttered。
“And you have so much in mon。”
“My dear Katharine！” William exclaimed； flinging him
self back in his chair； and uprooting his eyes from the
spot in the fire。 “I really don’t know what we’re talking
about… 。 I assure you… 。”
He was covered with an extreme confusion。
He withdrew the finger that was still thrust between
the pages of Gulliver； opened the book； and ran his eye
down the list of chapters； as though he were about to
select the one most suitable for reading aloud。 As
Katharine watched him； she was seized with preliminary
symptoms of his own panic。 At the same time she was
convinced that； should he find the right page； take out
his spectacles； clear his throat； and open his lips； a chance
that would never e again in all their lives would be
lost to them both。
“We’re talking about things that interest us both very
much；” she said。 “Shan’t we go on talking； and leave
Swift for another time？ I don’t feel in the mood for Swift；
and it’s a pity to read any one when that’s the case—
particularly Swift。”
The presence of wise literary speculation； as she calculated；
restored William’s confidence in his security； and
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he replaced the book in the bookcase； keeping his back
turned to her as he did so； and taking advantage of this
circumstance to summon his thoughts together。
But a second of introspection had the alarming result
of showing him that his mind； when looked at from within；
was no longer familiar ground。 He felt； that is to say；
what he had never consciously felt before； he was revealed
to himself as other than he was wont to think
him； he was afloat upon a sea of unknown and tumultuous
possibilities。 He paced once up and down the room；
and then flung himself impetuously into the chair by
Katharine’s side。 He had never felt anything like this before；
he put himself entirely into her hands； he cast off
all responsibility。 He very nearly exclaimed aloud：
“You’ve stirred up all these odious and violent emotions；
and now you must do the best you can with them。”
Her near presence； however； had a calming and reassuring
effect upon his agitation； and he was conscious only
of an implicit trust that； somehow； he was safe with her；
that she would see him through； find out what it was
that he wanted； and procure it for him。
“I wish to do whatever you tell me to do；” he said。 “I
put myself entirely in your hands； Katharine。”
“You must try to tell me what you feel；” she said。
“My dear； I feel a thousand things every second。 I don’t
know； I’m sure； what I feel。 That afternoon on the heath—
it was then—then—” He broke off； he did not tell her
what had happened then。 “Your ghastly good sense； as
usual； has convinced me—for the moment—but what the
truth is； Heaven only knows！” he exclaimed。
“Isn’t it the truth that you are； or might be； in love
with Cassandra？” she said gently。
William bowed his head。 After a moment’s silence he
murmured：
“I believe you’re right； Katharine。”
She sighed； involuntarily。 She had been hoping all this
time； with an intensity that increased second by second
against the current of her words； that it would not in the
end e to this。 After a moment of surprising anguish；
she summoned her courage to tell him how she wished
only that she might help him； and had framed the first
words of her speech when a knock； terrific and startling
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to people in their overwrought condition； sounded upon
the door。
“Katharine； I worship you；” he urged； half in a whisper。
“Yes；” she replied； withdrawing with a little shiver； “but
you must open the door。”
CHAPTER XXIII
When Ralph Denham entered the room and saw Katharine
seated with her back to him； he was conscious of a change
in the grade of the atmosphere such as a traveler meets
with sometimes upon the roads； particularly after sunset；
when； without warning； he runs from clammy chill to a
hoard of unspent warmth in which the sweetness of hay
and beanfield is cherished； as if the sun still shone although
the moon is up。 He hesitated； he shuddered； he
walked elaborately to the window and laid aside his coat。
He balanced his stick most carefully against the folds of
the curtain。 Thus occupied with his own sensations and
preparations； he had little time to observe what either of
the other two was feeling。 Such symptoms of agitation
as he might perceive （and they had left their tokens in
brightness of eye and pallor of cheeks） seemed to him
well befitting the actors in so great a drama as that of
Katharine Hilbery’s daily life。 Beauty and passion were
the breath of her being； he thought。
She scarcely noticed his presence； or only as it forced
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her to adopt a manner of posure； which she was certainly
far from feeling。 William； however； was even more
agitated than she was； and her first instalment of promised
help took the form of some monplace upon the
age of the building or the architect’s name； which gave
him an excuse to fumble in a drawer for certain designs；
which he laid upon the table between the three of them。
Which of the three followed the designs most carefully
it would be difficult to tell； but it is certain that not one
of the three found for the moment anything to say。 Years
of training in a drawingroom 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 highpitched
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