He scowled at his aunt, who sat there thrilled and indignant and happy.
“I say!” he burst out. “Of course you mustn’t tell anybody!”
Aunt Aggie nodded her head and her needles clicked.
“It must remain with wiser and older heads than yours, Henry, as to what ought to be done ...” then to herself again: “Ah, they’ll wish they’d listened to me now.”
“But I say,” repeated Henry, red in the face, standing in front of her, “you really mustn’t. I told it you as a secret.”
“A secret! When everyone in London knows! A nice thing they’ll all think—letting Katherine marry a man with such a reputation!”
“No, but look here—you wouldn’t have known anything if I hadn’t told you—and you mustn’t do anything—you mustn’t really. Katie loves him—more than ever—and if she were to lose him—”
“Much better for her to lose him,” said Aunt Aggie firmly, “than for her to be miserable for life—much better. Besides, think of the abominable way the man’s deceived us! Why, he’s no better than a common thief! He—”
“Perhaps he hasn’t deceived her,” interrupted Henry. “Perhaps he’s told her—”
“Told her!” cried his aunt. “And do you really suppose that Katherine would stay for one moment with a man whose life—My dear Henry, how little you know your sister. She certainly has changed lately under that dreadful man’s influence, but she’s not changed so fundamentally as to forget all principles of right and wrong, all delicate feeling.”