Katherine had, at the sound of her mother’s voice, given her one flash of amazement: then she had turned to Philip, while she felt a cold shudder at her heart as though she were some prisoner suddenly clapt into a cage and the doors bolted.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “Mr. Seymour came a long time ago and told me things that he thought I ought to know. I said to Mr. Seymour that he must not do such things, and that if I ever spoke of it to Philip I should give him his name. I disapprove of such things. Yes, it was Mr. Seymour—I think he never liked you, Philip, because you contradicted him about Russia. He’s a nice, clever boy, but I daresay he’s wrong in his facts....” Then, as they still waited in silence, “I really think that’s all, Aggie. You must forgive me, dear, but I don’t think it was quite your business. Katherine is over age, you know, and in any case it isn’t quite nice in the drawing-room—and really only because your tea was cold, Aggie dear.”
“You’ve known ... you’ll do nothing, Harriet?” Aggie gasped.
Mrs. Trenchard looked at them before she turned back to her writing-table.
“You can ring for some fresh tea if you like,” she said.
But for a moment her eyes had caught Philip’s eyes. They exchanged the strangest look. Hers of triumph, sarcastic, ironic, amazingly triumphant, his of a dull, hopeless abandonment and submission.
Her attack at last, after long months of struggle, had succeeded. He was beaten. She continued her letter.
CHAPTER IV
THE WILD NIGHT
Ten minutes later Katherine and Philip were alone in the garden. There were signs that the gorgeous summer afternoon was to be caught into thunder. Beyond the garden-wall a black cloud crept toward the trees, and the sunlight that flooded the lawn seemed garish now, as though it had been painted in shrill colours on to the green; the air was intensely hot; the walls of the house glittered like metal.