And at the same instant he saw Geraldine descending the stairs.

Kathleen saw her, too; saw her turn abruptly, re-mount and disappear.  There was a moment’s painful silence, then, without a word, she picked up her lace skirts, ran up the stairway, and continued swiftly on to Geraldine’s room.

“May I come in?” She spoke and opened the door of the bedroom at the same time, and Geraldine turned on her, exasperated, hands clenched, dark eyes harbouring lightning: 

“Have I gone quite mad, Kathleen, or have you?” she demanded.

“I think I have,” whispered Kathleen, turning white and halting.  “Geraldine, you will have to listen.  Scott has told me that he loves me——­”

“Is this the first time?”

“No....  It is the first time I have listened.  I can’t think clearly; I scarcely know yet what I’ve said and done.  What must you think?...  But won’t you be a little gentle with me—­a little forbearing—­in memory of what I have been to you—­to him—­so long?”

“What do you wish me to think?” asked the girl in a hard voice.  “My brother is of age; he will do what he pleases, I suppose.  I—­I don’t know what to think; this has astounded me.  I never dreamed such a thing possible——­”

“Nor I—­until this spring.  I know it is all wrong; this is making me more fearfully unhappy every minute I live.  There is nothing but peril in it; the discrepancy in our ages makes it hazardous—­his youth, his overwhelming fortune, my position and means—­the world will surely, surely misinterpret, misunderstand—­I think even you, his sister, may be led to credit—­what, in your own heart, you must know to be utterly and cruelly untrue.”

“I don’t know what to say or think,” repeated Geraldine in a dull voice.  “I can’t realise it; I thought that our affection for you was so—­so utterly different.”

She stared curiously at Kathleen, trying to reconcile what she had always known of her with what she now had to reckon with—­strove to find some alteration in the familiar features, something that she had never before noticed, some new, unsuspected splendour of beauty and charm, some undetected and subtle allure.  She saw only a wholesome, young, and lovely woman, fresh-skinned, slender, sweet, and graceful—­the same companion she had always known and, as she remembered, unchanged in any way since the years of childhood, when Kathleen was twenty and she and her brother were ten.

“I suppose,” she said, “that if Scott is in love with you, there is only one thing to do.”

“There are several,” said Kathleen in a low voice.

“Will you not marry him?”

“I don’t know; I think not.”

“Are you not in love with him?”

“Does that matter?” asked Kathleen steadily.  “Scott’s happiness is what is important.”

“But his happiness, apparently, depends on you.”

Kathleen flushed and looked at her curiously.