want her to marry any one； but when she said； ‘It will
make no difference。 I shall always care for you and father
most；’ then I saw how selfish I was； and I told her she
must give him everything； everything； everything！ I told
her I should be thankful to e second。 But why； when
everything’s turned out just as one always hoped it would
turn out； why then can one do nothing but cry； nothing
but feel a desolate old woman whose life’s been a failure；
and now is nearly over； and age is so cruel？ But Katharine
said to me； ‘I am happy。 I’m very happy。’ And then I
thought； though it all seemed so desperately dismal at
the time； Katharine had said she was happy； and I should
have a son； and it would all turn out so much more wonderfully
than I could possibly imagine； for though the
sermons don’t say so； I do believe the world is meant for
us to be happy in。 She told me that they would live quite
near us； and see us every day； and she would go on with
the Life； and we should finish it as we had meant to。
And； after all； it would be far more horrid if she didn’t
marry—or suppose she married some one we couldn’t
endure？ Suppose she had fallen in love with some one
who was married already？
“And though one never thinks any one good enough for
the people one’s fond of； he has the kindest； truest instincts；
I’m sure； and though he seems nervous and his
manner is not manding； I only think these things
because it’s Katharine。 And now I’ve written this； it es
over me that； of course； all the time； Katharine has what
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he hasn’t。 She does mand； she isn’t nervous； it es
naturally to her to rule and control。 It’s time that she
should give all this to some one who will need her when
we aren’t there； save in our spirits； for whatever people
say； I’m sure I shall e back to this wonderful world
where one’s been so happy and so miserable； where； even
now； I seem to see myself stretching out my hands for
another present from the great Fairy Tree whose boughs
are still hung with enchanting toys； though they are rarer
now； perhaps； and between the branches one sees no
longer the blue sky； but the stars and the tops of the
mountains。
“One doesn’t know any more； does one？ One hasn’t any
advice to give one’s children。 One can only hope that
they will have the same vision and the same power to
believe； without which life would be so meaningless。 That
is what I ask for Katharine and her husband。”
CHAPTER XII
Is Mr。 Hilbery at home； or Mrs。 Hilbery？” Denham asked；
of the parlormaid in Chelsea； a week later。
“No； sir。 But Miss Hilbery is at home；” the girl answered。
Ralph had anticipated many answers； but not this one；
and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it
was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him
all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father。
He made some show of considering the matter； and was
taken upstairs to the drawingroom。 As upon that first
occasion； some weeks ago； the door closed as if it were a
thousand doors softly excluding the world； and once more
Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows；
firelight； unwavering silver candle flames； and empty
spaces to be crossed before reaching the round table in
the middle of the room； with its frail burden of silver
trays and china teacups。 But this time Katharine was there
by herself； the volume in her hand showed that she expected
no visitors。
Ralph said something about hoping to find her father。
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“My father is out；” she replied。 “But if you can wait； I
expect him soon。”
It might have been due merely to politeness； but Ralph
felt that she received him almost with cordiality。 Perhaps
she was bored by drinking tea and reading a book all
alone； at any rate； she tossed the book on to a sofa with
a gesture of relief。
“Is that one of the moderns whom you despise？” he
asked； smiling at the carelessness of her gesture。
“Yes；” she replied。 “I think even you would despise him。”
“Even I？” he repeated。 “Why even I？”
“You said you liked modern things； I said I hated them。”
This was not a very accurate report of their conversation
among the relics； perhaps； but Ralph was flattered
to think that she remembered anything about it。
“Or did I confess that I hated all books？” she went on；
seeing him look up with an air of inquiry。 “I forget—”
“Do you hate all books？” he asked。
“It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when
I’ve only read ten； perhaps； but—’ Here she pulled herself
up short。
“Well？”
“Yes； I do hate books；” she continued。 “Why do you
want to be for ever talking about your feelings？ That’s
what I can’t make out。 And poetry’s all about feelings—
novels are all about feelings。”
She cut a cake vigorously into slices； and providing a
tray with bread and butter for Mrs。 Hilbery； who was in
her room with a cold； she rose to go upstairs。
Ralph held the door open for her； and then stood with
clasped hands in the middle of the room。 His eyes were
bright； and； indeed； he scarcely knew whether they beheld
dreams or realities。 All down the street and on the
doorstep； and while he mounted the stairs； his dream of
Katharine possessed him； on the threshold of the room
he had dismissed it； in order to prevent too painful a
collision between what he dreamt of her and what she
was。 And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the
old dream with the flesh of life； looked with fire out of
phantom eyes。 He glanced about him with bewilderment
at finding himself among her chairs and tables； they were
solid； for he grasped the back of the chair in which
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Katharine had sat； and yet they were unreal； the atmosphere
was that of a dream。 He summoned all the faculties
of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give
him； and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked
a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses；
in its beauty； all that our wildest dreams bring us
hints of。
Katharine came into the room a moment later。 He stood
watching her e towards him； and thought her more
beautiful and strange than his dream of her； for the real
Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd
behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes； and
the monest sentence would be flashed on by this
immortal light。 And she overflowed the edges of the dream；
he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast
snowy owl； she wore a ruby on her finger。
“My mother wants me to tell you；” she said； “that she
hopes you have begun your poem。 She says every one
ought to write poetry… 。 All my relations write poetry；”
she went on。 “I can’t bear to think of it sometimes—
because； of course； it’s none of it any good。 But then one
needn’t read it—”
“You don’t encourage me to write a poem；” said Ralph。
“But you’re not a poet； too； are you？” she inquired；
turning upon him with a laugh。