r for Agnes, nor for Stephen, nor for Stephen's parents, in whose
tragedy she had assisted, yet she did feel that if the scandal revived
it would disturb the harmony of Cadover, and therefore tried to retrace
her steps. It is easy to say shocking things: it is so different to be
connected with anything shocking. Life and death were not involved, but
comfort and discomfort were.

The silence was broken by the sound of feet on the gravel. Agnes said
hastily, "Is that really true--that he knows nothing?"

"You, Rickie, and I are the only people alive that know. He realizes
what he is--with a precision that is sometimes alarming. Who he is, he
doesn't know and doesn't care. I suppose he would know when I'm dead.
There are papers."

"Aunt Emily, before he comes, may I say to you I'm sorry I was so rude?"

Mrs. Failing had not disliked her courage. "My dear, you may. We're all
off our hinges this Sunday. Sit down by me again."

Agnes obeyed, and they awaited the arrival of Stephen. They were clever
enough to understand each other. The thing must be hushed up. The matron
must repair the consequences of her petulance. The girl must hide the
stain in her future husband's family. Why not? Who was injured? What
does a grown-up man want with a grown brother? Rickie upstairs, how
grateful he would be to them for saving him.

"Stephen!"

"Yes."

"I'm tired of you. Go and bathe in the sea."

"All right."

And the whole thing was settled. She liked no fuss, and so did he. He
sat down on the step to tighten his bootlaces. Then he would be ready.
Mrs. Failing laid two or three sovereigns on the step above him. Agnes
tried to make conversation, and said, with averted eyes, that the sea
was a long way off.

"The sea's downhill. That's all I know about it." He swept up the money
with a word of pleasure: he was kept like a baby in such things. Then he
started off, but slowly, for he meant to walk till the morning.

"He will be gone days," said Mrs. Failing. "The comedy is finished. Let
us come in."

She went to her room. The storm that she had raised had shattered
her. Yet, because it was stilled for a moment, she resumed her old
emancipated manner, and spoke of it as a comedy.

As for Miss Pembroke, she pretended to be emancipated no longer. People
like "Stephen Wonham" were social thunderbolts, to be shunned at all
costs, or at almost all costs. Her joy was now unfeigned, and she
hurried upstairs to impart it to Rickie.