He prevailed to such good purpose that he was now, Milly said, well enough to go back to business. They were to leave Sarratt End in about ten days, when they would have been there seven weeks.
She had come over on the Sunday to let Agatha know that; and also, she said, to make a confession.
Milly’s face, as she said it, was all candour. It had filled out; it had bloomed in her happiness; it was shadowless, featureless almost, like a flower.
She had done what she said she wouldn’t do; she had told Harding.
“Oh, Milly, what on earth did you do that for?” Agatha’s voice was strange.
“I thought it better,” Milly said, revealing the fine complacence of her character.
“Why better?”
“Because secrecy is bad. And he was beginning to wonder. He wanted to go back to business; and he wouldn’t, because he thought it was the place that did it.”
“I see,” said Agatha. “And what does he think it is now?”
“He thinks it’s you, dear.”