Her words brought Alan's impulsive outburst to the remembrance of both Clifford and Katharine. They looked at each other. The boy was not there.
"Knutty," said Clifford, "we saw Mrs Stanhope up at the Saeter."
"Well," she said, "you do say astounding things when you do speak."
He smiled gravely.
"Yes," he replied, "we saw Mrs Stanhope up at the Saeter."
But at that moment Ragnhild came into the verandah and touched Knutty on the shoulder. She had not been crying, but she had on her pretty face that awed expression which the presence of death in a community gives to even the most unemotional. For death is a shock, and the mystery of it holds us under its influence whether we be willing or not.
"Fröken," she said, "Bedstemor is asking for thee. No one will do except only thee. And they have carried Bedstefar into the other house. And Mor is very tired. Thou wilt come, ja?"
Tante went off with Ragnhild, and she had no further chance that evening of talking with Clifford. But Katharine told her details of that strange encounter up at the Saeter, and ended up by saying naïvely:
"And you know, Knutty, part of what Mrs Stanhope said is true, for I have flirted tremendously in my time. At least, my brother always says so."
"Well, my dear," Knutty said, embracing her, "and a good thing too! A woman is not worth her salt if she does not know how to flirt. But all women do know, though they call it by different names—taking an interest in—making slippers for—embroidering waistcoats for—doing mission work for—and so on, in an ascending scale of intensity, you know, from the slipper business onwards and upwards to the postchaise, or, I suppose we ought to say, motor-car in these advanced days. Don't regret your flirtations! They have made you what you are—a darling! Believe the word of a wicked old woman."