“And your brother would die of grief if ever he discovered it. But he won’t.”
He turned upon her a bit nettled.
“Aunt Philomela,” he said, “now that we have begun, we must play the game for all it’s worth. That is another thing the Schuylers have always done, haven’t they? You and I and the estimable young man count for nothing in this. Do you think I would play it for myself alone?”
Aunt Philomela looked a bit chagrined.
“No,” she said, “I suppose—I suppose we do owe you a great debt.”
The soft grass had muffled his approach so that for a moment
she was unaware that she was not alone.
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“You owe me nothing. I’m well repaid by my inspirations and by a certain easing of my conscience in a little family affair of my own. But even without those things I should still be repaid. And even if I were not repaid at all, I’d again gladly undertake it. Only we must pull together, Aunt Philomela, and we must stick it out to the end.”
“But,” she trembled, “what is the end?”
“God knows,” he answered.