“Aunt Aggie! Of course not!”
“I wish to be of some use—it is my continual prayer—some use to someone—and you make me feel—but of course you are young and impatient—that I’d be better perhaps out of the way.”
Katherine answered her very gravely: “If I’ve ever made you feel that for a moment, Aunt Aggie, there’s nothing too bad for me. But how can you say such a thing? Aren’t you a little unjust?”
The two tears had disappeared.
“I daresay I am, my dear, I daresay I am—or seem so to you. Old people often do to young ones. But I’m not unjust, I think, in fancying that you yourself have changed lately. I made you angry when I said that just now, but I felt it my duty—”
Katherine was silent. Aunt Aggie watched her with bright, inquisitive eyes, from which tears were now very far away.
“Well, we won’t say any more, dear. My fault is, perhaps, that I am too anxious to do things for others, and so may seem to you young ones interfering. I don’t know, I’m sure. It has always been my way. I’m glad indeed when you tell me that nothing is the matter. To my old eyes it seems that ever since Mr. Mark stayed here the house has not been the same. You have not been the same.”
“Mr. Mark?” Katherine’s voice was sharp, then suddenly dropped and, after an instant’s silence, was soft, “You’ve got Mr. Mark on the brain, Aunt Aggie.”
“Well, my dear, I didn’t like him. I’m sure he was very bad for Henry. But then I’m old-fashioned, I suppose. Mr. Mark shocked me, I confess. Russia must be a very wild country.”
Then, for a space, they looked at one another. Katherine said nothing, only, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming sharply, stared into the mirror on the dressing-table. Aunt Aggie faced in this silence something alarming and uneasy; it was as though they were, both of them, listening for some sound, but the house was very still.