“The plan. The place. He slept last night. Ten hours straight on end. I know, for I stayed awake and watched him. And this morning—oh, my dear, if you could see him! He’s all right. He’s all right.”
“And you think,” said Agatha, “it’s the place?”
Milly knew nothing, guessed, divined nothing.
“Why, what else can it be?” she said.
“What does he think?”
“He doesn’t think. He can’t account for it. He says himself it’s miraculous.”
“Perhaps,” said Agatha, “it is.”
They were silent a moment over the wonder of it.
“I can’t get over it,” said Milly presently. “It’s so odd that it should make all that difference. I could understand it if it had worked that way at first. But it didn’t. Think of him yesterday. And yet—if it isn’t the place, what is it? What is it?”
Agatha did not answer. She wasn’t going to tell Milly what it was. If she did, Milly wouldn’t believe her, and Milly’s unbelief might work against it. It might prove, for all she knew, an inimical, disastrous power.