"Patricia, how dare you say such a thing before me." A slight flush mantled Miss Brent's sallow cheeks. All the proprieties, all the chastities and all the moralities banked up behind her in moral support.
"You ought to feel ashamed of yourself, Patricia. London has done you no good. What would your poor dear father have said?"
"I'm sorry, Aunt Adelaide; but please remember I've had a very tiring week, trying to leaven an unleavenable politician. Shall we drop the subject of Colonel Bowen for the time being?"
"Certainly not," snapped Miss Brent. "It is my duty as your sole surviving relative," how Patricia deplored that word "surviving," why had her Aunt Adelaide survived? "As your sole surviving relative," repeated Miss Brent, "it is my duty to look after your welfare."
"But," protested Patricia, "I'm nearly twenty-five, and I am quite able to look after myself."
"Patricia, it is my duty to look after you." Miss Brent spoke as if she were about to walk over heated ploughshares rather than to satisfy a natural curiosity.
"I repeat," proceeded Miss Brent, "where did you meet Colonel Bowen?"
"I have told you, Aunt Adelaide, but you won't believe me."
"I want to know the truth, Patricia. Is he really Lord Peter?" persisted Miss Brent.
"To be quite candid, I've never asked him," replied Patricia.