“Of course we must tell Irma!” said Philip.

“Of course,” said his mother.  “But I think we can still not tell her about Lilia’s marriage.”

“I don’t think that.  And she must have suspected something by now.”

“So one would have supposed.  But she never cared for her mother, and little girls of nine don’t reason clearly.  She looks on it as a long visit.  And it is important, most important, that she should not receive a shock.  All a child’s life depends on the ideal it has of its parents.  Destroy that and everything goes—­morals, behaviour, everything.  Absolute trust in some one else is the essence of education.  That is why I have been so careful about talking of poor Lilia before her.”

“But you forget this wretched baby.  Waters and Adamson write that there is a baby.”

“Mrs. Theobald must be told.  But she doesn’t count.  She is breaking up very quickly.  She doesn’t even see Mr. Kingcroft now.  He, thank goodness, I hear, has at last consoled himself with someone else.”

“The child must know some time,” persisted Philip, who felt a little displeased, though he could not tell with what.

“The later the better.  Every moment she is developing.”

“I must say it seems rather hard luck, doesn’t it?”

“On Irma?  Why?”

“On us, perhaps.  We have morals and behaviour also, and I don’t think this continual secrecy improves them.”

“There’s no need to twist the thing round to that,” said Harriet, rather disturbed.

“Of course there isn’t,” said her mother.  “Let’s keep to the main issue.  This baby’s quite beside the point.  Mrs. Theobald will do nothing, and it’s no concern of ours.”

“It will make a difference in the money, surely,” said he.

“No, dear; very little.  Poor Charles provided for every kind of contingency in his will.  The money will come to you and Harriet, as Irma’s guardians.”

“Good.  Does the Italian get anything?”

“He will get all hers.  But you know what that is.”

“Good.  So those are our tactics—­to tell no one about the baby, not even Miss Abbott.”

“Most certainly this is the proper course,” said Mrs. Herriton, preferring “course” to “tactics” for Harriet’s sake.  “And why ever should we tell Caroline?”

“She was so mixed up in the affair.”

“Poor silly creature.  The less she hears about it the better she will be pleased.  I have come to be very sorry for Caroline.  She, if any one, has suffered and been penitent.  She burst into tears when I told her a little, only a little, of that terrible letter.  I never saw such genuine remorse.  We must forgive her and forget.  Let the dead bury their dead.  We will not trouble her with them.”

Philip saw that his mother was scarcely logical.  But there was no advantage in saying so.  “Here beginneth the New Life, then.  Do you remember, mother, that was what we said when we saw Lilia off?”