“But it was you who first suggested,” Irene began.
Mrs. Aldwinkle cut her short, before she could say any more, with a brusqueness that might have revealed to a more practised psychologist than Irene her consciousness of being in the wrong. “Absurd,” she said. “I suppose you’re going to tell me,” she went on sarcastically, “that it was I who told you to marry him.”
“I know you didn’t,” said Irene.
“There!” Mrs. Aldwinkle’s tone was triumphant.
“But you did say you wondered why I wasn’t in love….”
“Bah,” said Aunt Lilian, “I was just making fun. Calf loves….”
“But why shouldn’t I marry him?” asked Irene. “If I love him and he loves me. Why shouldn’t I?”
Why shouldn’t she? Yes, that was an awkward question. Getting old, getting old, muttered the clock in the brief ensuing silence. Perhaps that was half the answer. Getting old! they were all going; first Chelifer, then Calamy, now Irene. Getting old, getting old; soon she’d be quite alone. And it wasn’t only that. It was also her pride that was hurt, her love of dominion that suffered. Irene had been her slave; had worshipped her, taken her word as law, her opinions as gospel truth. Now she was transferring her allegiance. Mrs. Aldwinkle was losing a subject—losing her to a more powerful rival. It was intolerable. “Why shouldn’t you marry him?” Mrs. Aldwinkle repeated the phrase ironically two or three times, while she hunted for the answer. “Why shouldn’t you marry him?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Irene asked again. There were tears in her eyes; but however unhappy she might look, there was something determined and indomitable in her attitude, something obstinate in her expression and her tone of voice. Mrs. Aldwinkle had reason to fear her rival.
“Because you’re too young,” she said at last. It was a very feeble answer; but she had been unable to think of a better one.