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
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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 —dinnerparties—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；” 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 perating 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 sisterinlaw。
“Yes。 Or to stay away in the country；” Katharine concluded。
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Mrs。 Hilbery paused； looked unhappy； and sought inspiration
from the window。
“What a fort 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。
“Yes。 Rather a finelooking old lady； with white hair。”
Katharine began to describe her visit； and soon Mrs。
Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of
excruciating ugliness； which Ralph bore without plaint；
but that it was evident that every one depended on him；
and he had a room at the top of the house； with a wonderful
view over London； and a rook。
“A wretched old bird in a corner； with half its feathers
out；” she said； with a tenderness in her voice that seemed
to miserate the sufferings of humanity while resting
assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them；
so that Mrs。 Hilbery could not help exclaiming：
“But； Katharine； you are in love！” at which Katharine
flushed； looked startled； as if she had said something
that she ought not to have said； and shook her head。
Hastily Mrs。 Hilbery asked for further details of this
extraordinary house； and interposed a few speculations
about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane；
which tided over the disfort of the moment； and drew
Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions。 In
truth； she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus
free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally
benignant； the mother of her earliest childhood； whose
silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked。
Mrs。 Hilbery listened without making any remark for a
considerable time。 She seemed to draw her conclusions
rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to
her； and； if crossexamined； she would probably have given
a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham’s lifehistory
except that he was penniless； fatherless； and lived
at Highgate—all of which was much in his favor。 But by
means of these furtive glances she had assured herself
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that Katharine was in a state which gave her； alternately；
the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm。
She could not help ejaculating at last：
“It’s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays；
if you think the Church service a little florid—which
it is； though there are noble things in it。”
“But we don’t want to be married；” Katharine replied
emphatically； and added； “Why； after all； isn’t it perfectly
possible to live together without being married？”
Again Mrs。 Hilbery looked disposed； and； in her
trouble； took up the sheets which were lying upon the
table； and began turning them over this way and that；
and muttering to herself as she glanced：
“A plus B minus C equals ‘x y z’。 It’s so dreadfully ugly；
Katharine。 That’s what I feel—so dreadfully ugly。”
Katharine took the sheets from her mother’s hand and
began shuffling them absentmindedly together； for her
fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent
upon some other matter。
“Well； I don’t know about ugliness；” she said at length。
“But he doesn’t ask it of you？” Mrs。 Hilbery exclaimed。
“Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes？”
“He doesn’t ask anything—we neither of us ask anything。”
“If I could help you； Katharine； by the memory of what
I felt—”
“Yes； tell me what you felt。”
Mrs。 Hilbery； her eyes growing blank； peered down the
enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which
the little figures of herself and her husband appeared
fantastically attired； clasping hands upon a moonlit beach；
with roses swinging in the dusk。
“We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night；”
she began。 “The sun had set and the moon was rising
over our heads。 There were lovely silver lights upon the
waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the
middle of the bay。 Your father’s head looked so grand
against the mast。 It was life； it was death。 The great sea
was round us。 It was the voyage for ever and ever。”
The ancient fairytale fell roundly and harmoniously upon
Katharine’s ears。 Yes； there was the enormous space of
the sea； there were the three green lights upon the
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steamer； the cloaked figures climbed up on deck。 And so；
voyaging over the green and purple waters； past the cliffs
and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with
the masts of ships and the steeples of churches—here
they were。 The river seemed to have brought them and
deposited them here at this precise point。 She looked
admiringly at her mother； that ancient voyager。
“Who knows；” exclaimed Mrs。 Hilbery； continuing her
reveries； “where we are bound for； or why； or who has
sent us； or what we shall find—who knows anything；
except that love is our faith—love—” she crooned； and
the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard
by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in
order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon。 She would
have been content for her mother to repeat that word
almost indefinitely—a soothing word when uttered by
another； a riveting together of the shattered fragments
of the world。 But Mrs。 Hilbery； instead of repeating the
word love； said pleadingly：
“And you won’t think those ugly thoughts again； will
you； Katharine？” at which words the ship which Katharine
had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have
done with its seafaring。 Yet she was in great need； if not
exactly of sympathy； of some form of advice； or； at least；
of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a
third person so as to renew them in her own eyes。
“But then；” she said； ignoring the difficult problem of
ugliness； “you knew you were in love； but we’re different。
It seems；” she continued； frowning a little as she tried to
fix the difficult feeling； “as if something came to an end
suddenly—gave out—faded—an illusion—as if when we
think we’re in love we make it up—we imagine what
doesn’t exist。 That’s why it’s impossible that we should
ever marry。 Always to be finding the other an illusion；
and going off and forgetting about t