“Yes, dear; but now it is really a New Life, because we are all at accord.  Then you were still infatuated with Italy.  It may be full of beautiful pictures and churches, but we cannot judge a country by anything but its men.”

“That is quite true,” he said sadly.  And as the tactics were now settled, he went out and took an aimless and solitary walk.

By the time he came back two important things had happened.  Irma had been told of her mother’s death, and Miss Abbott, who had called for a subscription, had been told also.

Irma had wept loudly, had asked a few sensible questions and a good many silly ones, and had been content with evasive answers.  Fortunately the school prize-giving was at hand, and that, together with the prospect of new black clothes, kept her from meditating on the fact that Lilia, who had been absent so long, would now be absent for ever.

“As for Caroline,” said Mrs. Herriton, “I was almost frightened.  She broke down utterly.  She cried even when she left the house.  I comforted her as best I could, and I kissed her.  It is something that the breach between her and ourselves is now entirely healed.”

“Did she ask no questions—­as to the nature of Lilia’s death, I mean?”

“She did.  But she has a mind of extraordinary delicacy.  She saw that I was reticent, and she did not press me.  You see, Philip, I can say to you what I could not say before Harriet.  Her ideas are so crude.  Really we do not want it known in Sawston that there is a baby.  All peace and comfort would be lost if people came inquiring after it.”

His mother knew how to manage him.  He agreed enthusiastically.  And a few days later, when he chanced to travel up to London with Miss Abbott, he had all the time the pleasant thrill of one who is better informed.  Their last journey together had been from Monteriano back across Europe.  It had been a ghastly journey, and Philip, from the force of association, rather expected something ghastly now.

He was surprised.  Miss Abbott, between Sawston and Charing Cross, revealed qualities which he had never guessed her to possess.  Without being exactly original, she did show a commendable intelligence, and though at times she was gauche and even uncourtly, he felt that here was a person whom it might be well to cultivate.

At first she annoyed him.  They were talking, of course, about Lilia, when she broke the thread of vague commiseration and said abruptly, “It is all so strange as well as so tragic.  And what I did was as strange as anything.”

It was the first reference she had ever made to her contemptible behaviour.  “Never mind,” he said.  “It’s all over now.  Let the dead bury their dead.  It’s fallen out of our lives.”

“But that’s why I can talk about it and tell you everything I have always wanted to.  You thought me stupid and sentimental and wicked and mad, but you never really knew how much I was to blame.”