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. . .
It was a curate and he was weeping bitterly. . . .
Benham stood in the doorway and watched a clumsy broken-hearted
flight down the village street.
He had been partly told and partly left to infer, and anyhow he was
beginning to understand about Mr. Rathbone-Sanders. That he could
dismiss. But--why was the curate in tears?

12

He found Amanda standing alone in the room from which this young man
had fled. She had a handful of daffodils in her hand, and others
were scattered over the table. She had been arranging the big bowl
of flowers in the centre. He left the door open behind him and
stopped short with the table between them. She looked up at him--
intelligently and calmly. Her pose had a divine dignity.
"I want to tell them now," said Benham without a word of greeting.
"Yes," she said, "tell them now."
They heard steps in the passage outside. "Betty!" cried Amanda.
Her mother's voice answered, "Do you want Betty?"
"We want you all," answered Amanda. "We have something to tell
you. . . ."
"Carrie!" they heard Mrs.


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