Why was he so puzzling?  He had known so much about her once—­what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions.  And now he only knew that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he needed it most.  Why would she never come to Italy again?  Why had she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening that she had saved their lives?  The train was nearly empty.  Harriet slumbered in a compartment by herself.  He must ask her these questions now, and he returned quickly to her down the corridor.

She greeted him with a question of her own.  “Are your plans decided?”

“Yes.  I can’t live at Sawston.”

“Have you told Mrs. Herriton?”

“I wrote from Monteriano.  I tried to explain things; but she will never understand me.  Her view will be that the affair is settled—­sadly settled since the baby is dead.  Still it’s over; our family circle need be vexed no more.  She won’t even be angry with you.  You see, you have done us no harm in the long run.  Unless, of course, you talk about Harriet and make a scandal.  So that is my plan—­London and work.  What is yours?”

“Poor Harriet!” said Miss Abbott.  “As if I dare judge Harriet!  Or anybody.”  And without replying to Philip’s question she left him to visit the other invalid.

Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked mournfully out of the window at the decreasing streams.  All the excitement was over—­the inquest, Harriet’s short illness, his own visit to the surgeon.  He was convalescent, both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy.  In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his face haggard, and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight of the sling.  Life was greater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete.  He had seen the need for strenuous work and for righteousness.  And now he saw what a very little way those things would go.

“Is Harriet going to be all right?” he asked.  Miss Abbott had come back to him.

“She will soon be her old self,” was the reply.  For Harriet, after a short paroxysm of illness and remorse, was quickly returning to her normal state.  She had been “thoroughly upset” as she phrased it, but she soon ceased to realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of a poor little child.  Already she spoke of “this unlucky accident,” and “the mysterious frustration of one’s attempts to make things better.”  Miss Abbott had seen that she was comfortable, and had given her a kind kiss.  But she returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered the affair as settled.

“I’m clear enough about Harriet’s future, and about parts of my own.  But I ask again, What about yours?”

“Sawston and work,” said Miss Abbott.

“No.”

“Why not?” she asked, smiling.

“You’ve seen too much.  You’ve seen as much and done more than I have.”