silence. Mrs.
Milvain could not make up her mind to withdraw while her principles
trembled in the balance and her curiosity remained unappeased. She
ransacked her mind for some question that should force Katharine to
enlighten her, but the supply was limited, the choice difficult, and
while she hesitated the door opened and William Rodney came in. He
carried in his hand an enormous and splendid bunch of white and purple
flowers, and, either not seeing Mrs. Milvain, or disregarding her,
he advanced straight to Katharine, and presented the flowers with the
words:

"These are for you, Katharine."

Katharine took them with a glance that Mrs. Milvain did not fail to
intercept. But with all her experience, she did not know what to make of
it. She watched anxiously for further illumination. William greeted her
without obvious sign of guilt, and, explaining that he had a holiday,
both he and Katharine seemed to take it for granted that his holiday
should be celebrated with flowers and spent in Cheyne Walk. A pause
followed; that, too, was natural; and Mrs. Milvain began to feel that
she laid herself open to a charge of selfishness if she stayed. The
mere presence of a young man had altered her disposition curiously, and
filled her with a desire for a scene which should end in an emotional
forgiveness. She would have given much to clasp both nephew and niece
in her arms. But she could not flatter herself that any hope of the
customary exaltation remained.

"I must go," she said, and she was conscious of an extreme flatness of
spirit.

Neither of them said anything to stop her. William politely escorted her
downstairs, and somehow, amongst her protests and embarrassments, Mrs.
Milvain forgot to say good-bye to Katharine. She departed, murmuring
words about masses of flowers and a drawing-room always beautiful even
in the depths of winter.

William came back to Katharine; he found her standing where he had left
her.

"I've come to be forgiven," he said. "Our quarrel was perfectly hateful
to me. I've not slept all night. You're not angry with me, are you,
Katharine?"

She could not bring herself to answer him until she had rid her mind of
the impression that her aunt had made on her. It seemed to her that the
very flowers were contaminated, and Cassandra's pocket-handkerchief, for
Mrs. Milvain had used them for evidence in her investigations.

"She's been spying upon us," she said, "following us about London,
overheari