Katharine laughed with them and at them, and loved to be in their company, but her heart was far away; and in the midst of the fun, her thoughts went straying to that man who had come in that unexpected way into her life—and gone. She fretted, and there was no one in whom she could have confided. Ronnie was too much taken up with his own affairs and his passionate adoration of his wife to have any real mental leisure for her. Katharine saw that great love, even as great sorrow, shuts the whole world out. She knew herself excluded from his inner shrine, whilst his outward social surroundings were increasingly uncongenial to her. She was troubled about him, too. He looked harassed, and had lost the old lightheartedness of three years ago. She tried in her kindly way to probe him; but in vain. She turned away sadly, recognising that she was no longer his confidante, and he was no longer hers.
She was happier with the Tonedales; and to them she went from time to time during those sad weeks, and continued to sit to Willy for that eternal portrait of Mary, Queen of Scots.
"Thank Heaven, Kath," he said one day, "you still have some leisure. No one has any leisure nowadays. Even Margaret has got dragged by the scruff of the neck into what my delightful cousin Julia calls 'a strenuous life.' Always at something, always doing something for some one who doesn't want that something done; always working at some cause. Great Scott, Kath! I don't mind you going into business so much, but if you take up a Cause, I shall commit suicide! Darling cousin Julia is great on Causes, you know. Good Heavens! What a tongue that woman has! If Causes want tongues, then she ought to get permanent employment without any difficulty. By Jove! though, you gave it to her that day, didn't you?"
Katharine had arrived in a state of great depression on that afternoon; and when Willy began speaking of Mrs Stanhope, her thoughts turned at once to Clifford Thornton, and her face became full of grief. Willy noticed the change in her expression, but went on painting silently. When he looked at her again, he saw tears in her eyes. He put down palette and brush and came to her. He saw at once that something was wrong with her, and all his kindest feelings of concern sprang up to protect her.
"Why, Kath," he said, "what's the matter with you? Any one been unkind to you? By Jove! I'll let them know if they have. They won't do it a second time. You should have heard me bullyragging cousin Julia. I gave her a bit of my mind for being so disagreeable to you the other day. What is wrong, Kath? Tell me, my dear."
She looked at him in a forlorn way.
"I am unhappy, Willy," she said; "that's what is wrong."
"Well, you might at least tell me what it is, my dear," he said. "You know I would do anything to help you. Anything on earth."
"You cannot help me," she said listlessly. "It is something I have to fight out in myself, old fellow."
He glanced at her, and then said: