“And I don’t know,” she went on, “whether you are really the best companion for Henry.”
Everyone looked up then at the bitterness in Aunt Aggie’s voice; no one heard Mrs. Trenchard say:
“Do have some tart, Henry.”
“What do you mean?” said Philip sharply. His proximity to her made in some way the anger between them absurd: they were so close that they could not look at one another.
“Oh, nothing ... nothing....” She closed her lips.
“Please ...” Philip insisted. “Why am I a bad companion for Henry?”
“Because you make him drink ... disgusting!” she brought out furiously: when she had spoken her eyes went to Katherine’s face—then, as she saw Katherine’s eyes fixed on Philip’s, her face hardened. “Yes. You know it’s true,” she repeated.
Henry broke in. “What do you say, Aunt Aggie? What do you mean? Drink—I—what?”
“You know that it’s true, Henry. That night that you dined with Philip in London—You came back—disgraceful. Philip had to carry you. You fell on the top of the stairs. He had to lift you up and carry you into your room. I watched it all. Well—I didn’t mean to say anything. I’m sorry, Harriet, if I—perhaps not quite the right time—but I—I—”
Her voice sank to muttering; her hands shook like leaves on the table-cloth and her tooth was saying: “Go for him! Go for him! Go for him!”