“Don’t tell any one,” she had said, “not for a few days. . . .”

This sub-Amanda was perceptible next morning again, flitting about in the background of a glad and loving adventuress, a pre-occupied Amanda who had put her head down while the real Amanda flung her chin up and contemplated things on the Asiatic scale, and who was apparently engaged in disentangling something obscure connected with Mr. Rathbone-Sanders that ought never to have been entangled. . . .

“A human being,” White read, “the simplest human being, is a clustering mass of aspects.  No man will judge another justly who judges everything about him.  And of love in particular is this true.  We love not persons but revelations.  The woman one loves is like a goddess hidden in a shrine; for her sake we live on hope and suffer the kindred priestesses that make up herself.  The art of love is patience till the gleam returns. . . .”

Sunday and Monday did much to develop this idea of the intricate complexity of humanity in Benham’s mind.  On Monday morning he went up from the Ship again to get Amanda alone and deliver his ultimatum against a further secrecy, so that he could own her openly and have no more of the interventions and separations that had barred him from any intimate talk with her throughout the whole of Sunday.  The front door stood open, the passage hall was empty, but as he hesitated whether he should proclaim himself with the knocker or walk through, the door of the little drawing-room flew open and a black-clad cylindrical clerical person entirely unknown to Benham stumbled over the threshold, blundered blindly against him, made a sound like “Moo” and a pitiful gesture with his arm, and fled forth. . . .

It was a curate and he was weeping bitterly. . . .

Benham stood in the doorway and watched a clumsy broken-hearted flight down the village street.

He had been partly told and partly left to infer, and anyhow he was beginning to understand about Mr. Rathbone-Sanders.  That he could dismiss.  But—­why was the curate in tears?

12

He found Amanda standing alone in the room from which this young man had fled.  She had a handful of daffodils in her hand, and others were scattered over the table.  She had been arranging the big bowl of flowers in the centre.  He left the door open behind him and stopped short with the table between them.  She looked up at him—­ intelligently and calmly.  Her pose had a divine dignity.

“I want to tell them now,” said Benham without a word of greeting.

“Yes,” she said, “tell them now.”

They heard steps in the passage outside.  “Betty!” cried Amanda.

Her mother’s voice answered, “Do you want Betty?”

“We want you all,” answered Amanda.  “We have something to tell you. . . .”

“Carrie!” they heard Mrs. Morris call her sister after an interval, and her voice sounded faint and flat and unusual.  There was the soft hissing of some whispered words outside and a muffled exclamation.  Then Mrs. Wilder and Mrs. Morris and Betty came into the room.  Mrs. Wilder came first, and Mrs. Morris with an alarmed face as if sheltering behind her.  “We want to tell you something,” said Amanda.