“Yes, Tibby angel, you were quite right.”

It was the sixth time Trix had made the same remark in the last half hour, and she had made it each time with the same attentive deliberation as if the words were being only once spoken, though she knew she would probably have to say them at least six times more.

She was sitting in front of her bedroom fire clad in a blue dressing-gown. Miss Tibbutt was sitting in an armchair opposite to her. She had come into the room presumably for two minutes only, to see that Trix had all she wanted, but after she had fluttered for full ten minutes from dressing-table to bed, and back to dressing-table again, talking all the time, Trix had firmly pushed her into an armchair.

Miss Tibbutt took off her spectacles, and polished them slowly.

“And what is to be done, Trix dear?”

Trix looked thoughtful.

“I really don’t know just at the moment. You see, though we are pretty certain, we are not quite certain. I know I thought last August that Pia was in love with someone, and now you say you are certain it is this man, and of course, as you say—” Trix hesitated a moment, feeling slightly hypocritical,—“it does seem odd when he is only a gardener, and one wonders how she could have met him, and all that. But, you know, you are not quite certain that you are right; or, even supposing that you are, that Pia will want any interference on our part. We must just wait a day or two and think matters over.”

Miss Tibbutt sighed.

“But you do think I was right to let you know?” she asked.

And a seventh time Trix replied with careful deliberation,

“Yes, Tibby angel, you were quite right.”

“You see,” said Miss Tibbutt, “I thought—” And she related exactly what she had thought, all over again.

Trix listened exceedingly patiently. She did not even know she was being patient. She only knew the enormous relief it was to Miss Tibbutt to repeat herself. With each repetition the thought which had choked her mind, so to speak, for the last five days, was further cleared from her brain. It was quite possible that Miss Tibbutt might sleep a very great deal better that night than she had done lately.

At last she stopped speaking, and looked towards the clock.

“My dear, I had no idea it was so late. You must be tired after your journey, and here have I been thinking only of myself again, and of my own anxiety, and not of you at all. I am not going to keep you up a moment longer. And if I am late for breakfast, please tell Pia I have gone to Mass. The walk won’t hurt me, and telling our dear Lord all about it will be the best way to help Pia. So good night, dear. And you are really not looking very tired in spite of your journey, and my having kept you up so late.”

Trix went with her to the door, and then returned to her chair by the fire. She was not in the least sleepy, and bed would do quite well enough later. Just now she wanted to think. There were two distinct trends of thought in which she wished to indulge; the one certainly contained cause for a little anxiety, the other was quite extraordinarily delicious. She must take the anxious trend first.

She had been considering matters exceedingly earnestly all the while Miss Tibbutt had been talking to her, and she had come to one very definite conclusion. She felt perfectly certain now, that it would ease the situation considerably if Pia knew who this Michael Field really was. It had come to her in an illuminating flash, that the same reason which had caused him to hide his identity, was responsible for his odd behaviour towards Pia. Now, of course, if Pia could see some even possible reason and excuse for the oddness of his behaviour, it must be a great comfort to her. But the question was, could she—Trix—tell her? Would not the telling probably involve her in the untruth her soul loathed? Or, if she was firm not to tell lies, would it not somehow involve a breaking of her promise to Nicholas? Again she saw, or thought she saw, all the questions which must ensue if she said where she had met the man; and if she did not say where she had met him, it would probably mean saying something which, virtually speaking at least, would not be true. If only she had not met him in the grounds of Chorley Old Hall.

It was the same old problem which had presented itself to her mind twice already, and the same possible over-scrupulosity was perplexing her now. However, she must stop thinking about it for to-night. She had come to an end of these thoughts so far as she could muster them into shape, and it was not the least particle of use going over them again. Her brain would run round like a squirrel in a cage, if she did. And Tibby was not with her to open the cage door, as she had opened it for Tibby. Besides, there was the other trend now.

She settled herself back among the cushions, and gazed at the dancing flames. It was all so wonderful, so gorgeously unexpected, and yet it was one of those things which just had to be. She was so sure of that, it made the happening doubly sweet. It was exactly as if she had been walking all her life through a quiet wood, a wood where the sunshine flickered through the trees overhead just sufficiently to make her feel quite certain of the existence of the sunshine, and then suddenly she had come out into its full warmth and beauty to behold a perfect landscape. And she knew that no single other path could have led her to this place, also that there could be no other prospect as beautiful for her.

“When did you first know?” she had asked him. The question millions of women have asked in their time, and that will be asked by millions more.

“I think,” he had answered smiling, “it was the very first moment you came into the room, looking like a woodland elf in your green frock. Anyhow I am quite certain it was when you were—shall we say a trifle snubbed in the moonlight.”

“Ah, poor Pia,” said Trix.

And then they had told each other countless little trivial things, things of no earthly importance to any one but their two selves, things rendered sweet, not so much by the words, as by the tone in which they were spoken. It had been the old, old story, the story which began in all its first beauty in the Garden of Eden, before the devil had entered therein with his wiles, a story which even now ofttimes holds much of that age-old wonderful beauty. And the stuffy, fusty railway carriage had not in the least diminished the joy of the telling.

Trix smiled to herself, a soft little radiant smile.

To-morrow she must tell Pia. She gave a little sigh. It would seem almost cruel to let her know of their happiness.

For Trix’s own happiness to be without flaw, it was invariably necessary that others should be in practically the same state of bliss.