“He is too ill to see you.” This perhaps had moved her, because she went on swiftly: “Katherine, what is the use of this? It hurts both of us. It can do no good. You acted as you thought right. It seemed to show me that you had no care for me after all these years. It shook all my confidence. That can never be between us again, and I could not, I think, in any way follow your new life. I could never forget, and you have now friends and interests that must exclude me. If we meet what can we have now in common? If I had loved you less, perhaps it would be possible, but as it is—no.”
Katherine had dried her tears.
They looked at one another. Katherine bowed her head. She had still to bite her lips that she might not cry, but she looked very proud.
“Perhaps,” she said, very softly, “that one day you will want—you will feel—At least I shall not change. I will come whenever you want me. I will always care the same. One day I will come back, Mother dear.”
Her mother said only:
“It is better that we should not meet.”
Katherine walked to the door. As she passed her mother she looked at her. Her eyes made one last prayer—then they were veiled.
She left the house.
A quarter of an hour later Henry came into the room, and found his Mother seated at her desk, plans and papers in front of her. He could hear her saying to herself: