At that moment of Mrs. Trenchard's death began the worst battle of Millie's life (so far). She dated it from that or perhaps from the evening of her mother's funeral four days later.

Mrs. Trenchard had expressed a wish to be buried in Garth and so down to Glebeshire they all went. The funeral took place on a day of the dreariest drizzling rain—Glebeshire at its earliest autumn worst. Afterwards they—Katherine, Millie, Henry, Philip and Mr. Trenchard—sat over a spluttering fire in the old chilly house and heard the rain, which developed at night into a heavy down-pour, beat upon the window-panes.

The Aunts had not come down, for which every one was thankful. Philip, looking as he did every day more and more a cross between a successful Prize-fighter and an eminent Cabinet Minister, was not thinking, as in Henry's opinion he should have been, of the havoc that he had wrought upon the Trenchard family, but of Public Affairs. Katherine was silent and soon went up to her room. Henry thought of Christina, his father retired into a corner, drank whisky and went to sleep. Millie struggled with a huge pillow of depression that came lolloping towards her and was only kept away by the grimmest determination.

Nobody except Katherine thought directly of Mrs. Trenchard, but she was there with them all in the room and would be with one or two of them—Mr. Trenchard, senior, and Katherine for instance—until the very day of their death.

Yes, perhaps after all Mrs. Trenchard had won the battle.

Millie went back to London with a cold and the Cromwell Road seemed almost unbearable. A great deal of what was unbearable came of course from Victoria. Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes Millie could not have believed that a month at Cladgate could alter so completely a human being as it had altered Victoria. There she had tasted Blood and she intended to go on tasting Blood to the end of the Chapter. It is true that Cladgate could not take all the blame for the transformation—Mr. Bennett and Major Mereward must also bear some responsibility. When these gentlemen had first come forward Millie had been touched by the effect upon Victoria of ardent male attention. Now she found that same male attention day by day more irritating. Major Mereward she could endure, silent and clumsy though he was. It was certainly tiresome to find yourself sitting next to him day after day at luncheon when the most that he could ever contribute was "Rippin' weather, what?" or "Dirty sort of day to-day"—but he did adore Victoria and would have adored her just as much had she not possessed a penny in the world. He thought her simply the wittiest creature in Europe and laughed at everything she said and often long before she said it. Yes, he was a good man even though he was a dull one.

But if Major Mereward was good Robin Bennett was most certainly bad. Millie very soon hated him with a hatred that made her shiver. She hated him, of course, for himself, but was it only that? Deep down in her soul there lurked a dreadful suspicion. Could it be that some of her hatred arose because in him she detected some vices and low qualities grown to full bloom that in twig, stem and leaf were already sprouting in a younger soil? Was there in Robin Bennett a prophecy? No, no. Never, never, never. . . . And yet. . . . Oh, how she hated him! His smart clothes, his neat hair, his white hands, his soft voice! And Bunny liked him. "Not half a bad fellow that man Bennett. Knows a motor-car when he sees one."

Millie had it not in her nature to pretend, and she did not disguise for a moment on whose side she was.

"You don't like me?" Bennett said to her one day.

"No, indeed I don't," said Millie, looking him in the eyes.

"Why not?"

"Why? Because for one thing I'm very fond of Victoria. You're after her money. She'll be perfectly miserable if she marries you."

He laughed. Nothing in life could disconcert him!

"Yes, of course I'm a Pirate." (Hadn't some one else somewhere said that once?) "This is the day for Pirates. There never was such a time for them. All sorts of people going about with money that they don't know what to do with. All sorts of other people without any money ready to do anything to get it. No morality any more. Damned good thing for England. Hypocrisy was the only thing that was the matter with her—now she's a hypocrite no longer! You see I'm frank with you, Miss Trenchard. You say you don't like me. Well, I'll return the compliment. I don't like you either. Of course you're damned pretty, about the prettiest girl in London I should say. But you're damned conceited too. You'll forgive me, won't you? You don't spare me you know. I tell young Baxter he's a fool to marry you. He'll be miserable with you."

"You tell him that?" Millie said furiously.

"Yes, why not? You tell Victoria she'd be miserable with me, don't you? Well, then. . . . You're very young, you know. When you're a bit older you'll see that there's not so much difference between people like me and people like yourself as you think. We all line up very much the same in the end. I mayn't have quite your faults and you mayn't have quite mine, but when it comes to the Judgment Day I don't expect there'll be much to choose between Piracy and Arrogance."

So far Mr. Bennett and a Victory cannot exactly be claimed for Millie in this encounter. She was furious. She was miserable. Was she so conceited? She'd ask Henry. She did ask the little doctor, who told her—"No. Only a little self-confident." He was her only friend and support in these days.

"Be patient with Victoria," he said. "It's only a phase. She'll work through this."

"She won't if she marries Mr. Bennett," Millie said.

Meanwhile the old artists' colony was broomed right away. Eve was carried down to the cellar, the voice of Mr. Block was no longer heard in the land and the poor little Russian went and begged for meals in other districts. Victoria danced, went to the theatre and gave supper-parties.

She was quite frank with Millie.

"I don't mind telling you, Millie, that all that art wasn't quite genuine—not altogether. I do like pretty things, of course—you know me well enough to know that. And I do want to help poor young artists. But they're so ungrateful. Now aren't they, Millie? You can see it for yourself. Look at Mr. Block. I really did everything I could for him. But is he pleased? Not a bit. He's as discontented as he can be."

"It's very difficult doing kindnesses to people," said Millie sententiously. "Sometimes you want to stop before they think you ought to."

"Now you're looking at me reproachfully. That isn't fine. Why shouldn't I enjoy myself and be gay a little? And I love dancing; I daresay I look absurd, but so do thousands of other people, so what does it matter? My Millie, I must be happy. I must. Do you know that this is positively the first time I've been happy in all my life and I daresay it's my last. . . . I know you often think me a fool. Oh, I see you looking at me. But I'm not such a fool as you think. I know about my age and my figure and all the rest of it. I know that if I hadn't a penny no one would look at me. You think that I don't know any of these things, but indeed I do. . . . It's my last fling and you can't deprive me of it!"

"Oh I don't want to deprive you of it," cried Millie, suddenly flinging her arms round the fat, red-faced woman, "only I don't want you to go and do anything foolish—like marrying Mr. Bennett for instance."

"Now, why shouldn't I marry Mr. Bennett? Suppose I'm in love with him—madly. Isn't it something in these days when there are so many old maids to have a month of love even if he beats one all the rest of one's days? And anyway I've got the purse—I could keep him in check. . . . No, that's a nasty way of talking. And I'm certainly not in love with Bennett, nor with Mereward neither. I don't suppose I'll ever be in love with any one again."

"You're lucky!" Millie broke out. "Oh, you are indeed! It isn't happy to be in love. It's miserable."

Indeed she was unhappy. She could not have believed that she would ever allow herself to be swung into such a swirl of emotions as were hers now. At one moment she hated him, feeling herself bound ignobly, surrendering weakly all that was best in herself; at such a moment she determined that she would be entirely frank with him, insisting on his own frankness, challenging him to tell her everything that he was, as she now knew, keeping back from her . . . then she loved him so that she wanted only his company, only to be with him, to hear him laugh, to see him happy, and she would accept any tie (knowing in her heart that it was a lie) if it would keep him with her and cause him to love her. That he did love her through all his weakness she was truly aware: it was that awareness that chained her to him.

Very strange the part that Ellen played in all this. That odd woman made no further demonstrations of affection; she was always now ironically sarcastic, hurting Millie when she could, and she knew, as no one else in the place did, the way to hurt her. Because of her Bunny came now much less to the house.

"I can't stand that sneering woman," he said, "and she loathes me."

Millie tried to challenge her.

"Why do you hate Bunny?" she asked. "He's never done you any harm."

"Hasn't he?" Ellen answered smiling.

"No, what harm has he done you?"

"I'll tell you one day."

"I hate these mysteries," Millie cried. "Once you asked to be my friend. Now——"

"Now?" repeated Ellen.

"You seem to want to hurt me any way you can."

Ellen had a habit of standing stiff against the wall, her heels together, her head back as though she were being measured for her height.

"Perhaps I don't like to see you so happy when I'm unhappy myself."

Millie came to her.

"Why are you unhappy, Ellen? I hate you to be. I do like you. I do want to be your friend if you'll let me. I offended you somehow in the early days. You've never forgiven me for it. But I don't even now know what I did."

Ellen walked away. Suddenly she turned.

"What," she said, "can people like you know about people like us, how we suffer, how we hate ourselves, how we are thirstier and thirstier and for ever unsatisfied. . . . No, I don't mean you any harm. I'll save you from Baxter, though. You're too pretty. . . . You can escape even though I can't."

There was melodrama in this it seemed to Millie. It was quite a relief to have a fierce quarrel with Bunny five minutes later. The quarrel came, of course, from nothing—about some play which was, Bunny said, at Daly's, and Millie at the Lyric.

They were walking furiously down Knightsbridge. An omnibus passed. The play was at the Lyric.

"Of course I was right," said Millie.

"Oh, you're always right, aren't you?"

Millie turned.

"I'm not coming on with you if you're like that."

"Very well then." He suddenly stepped back to her with his charming air of penitence.

"Millie, I'm sorry. Don't let's fight to-day."

"Well, then, take me to see your mother."

The words seemed not to be hers. At their sudden utterance Knightsbridge, the trees of the Park were carved in coloured stone.

His mouth set. "No, I can't."

"Why not?"

"She's not—she's not in London."

She knew that he was lying.

"Then take me to where she is."

They were walking on again, neither seeing the other.

"You know that I can't. She's down in the country."

"Then we'll go there."

"We can't."

"Yes, we can. Now. At once. If you ever want to speak to me again. . . ."

"I tell you—I've told you a thousand times—we must wait. There are reasons——"

"What reasons?"

"If you're patient——"

"I'm tired of being patient. Take me now or I'll never speak to you again."

"Well then, don't."

They parted. After an evening of utter misery she wrote to him:

My Darling Bunny—I know that I was hateful this afternoon. I know that I've been hateful other afternoons and shall be hateful again on afternoons to come. You're not very nice either on these occasions. What are we to do about it? We do love one another—I know we do. We ought to be kinder to one another than we are to any one else and yet we seem to like to lash out and hurt one another. And I think this is because there's something really wrong in our relationship. You make me feel as though you were ashamed to love me. Now why should you be ashamed? Why can't we be open and clear before all the world?

If you have some secret that you are keeping from me, tell me and we'll discuss it frankly like friends. Take me to see your mother. If she doesn't like me at first perhaps she will when she knows me better. Anyway we shall be sure of where we are. Oh, Bunny, we could be so happy. Why don't you let us be? I know that it is partly my fault. I suppose I'm conceited and think I'm always right. But I don't really inside—only if you don't pretend to have an opinion of your own no one will ever listen to anything you say. Oh! I don't know what I'm writing. I am tempted to telephone to you and see if you are in and if you are to ask you to come over here. Perhaps you will come of your own accord. Every footstep outside the door seems to be yours and then it goes on up the stairs. Don't let us quarrel, Bunny. I hate it so and we say such horrid things to one another that we neither of us mean. Forgive me for anything I've done or said. I love you. I love you. . . . Bunny darling.—Your loving

M.

Her letter was crossed by one from him.

Dearest Millie—I didn't mean what I said this afternoon. I love you so much that when we quarrel it's terrible. Do be patient, darling. You want everything to be right all in a moment. I'll tell you one day how difficult it has been all these months. You'll see then that it isn't all my fault. I'm not perfect but I do love you. You're the most beautiful thing ever made and I'm a lucky devil to be allowed to kiss your hand. I'll be round at Cromwell Road five o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Please forgive me, Millie darling.—Your loving

Bunny.

"To-morrow afternoon at five o'clock" the reconciliation was complete. No secrets were revealed.