“Of course he’d have liked to go on playing the stand-off to chaps like you and me,” she mimicked the tone and words of Fox himself.
“This is witchcraft,” I said. “How in the world do you know what Fox said to me?”
“Oh, I know,” she said. It seemed to me that she was playing me with all this nonsense—as if she must have known that I had a tenderness for her and were fooling me to the top of her bent. I tried to get my hook in.
“Now look here,” I said, “we must get things settled. You ...”
She carried the speech off from under my nose.
“Oh, you won’t denounce me,” she said, “not any more than you did before; there are so many reasons. There would be a scene, and you’re afraid of scenes—and our aunt would back me up. She’d have to. My money has been reviving the glories of the Grangers. You can see, they’ve been regilding the gate.”
I looked almost involuntarily at the tall iron gates through which she had passed into my view. It was true enough—some of the scroll work was radiant with new gold.
“Well,” I said, “I will give you credit for not wishing to—to prey upon my aunt. But still ...” I was trying to make the thing out. It struck me that she was an American of the kind that subsidizes households like that of Etchingham Manor. Perhaps my aunt had even forced her to take the family name, to save appearances. The old woman was capable of anything, even of providing an obscure nephew with a brilliant sister. And I should not be thanked if I interfered. This skeleton of swift reasoning passed between word and word ... “You are no sister of mine!” I was continuing my sentence quite amiably.
Her face brightened to greet someone approaching behind me.
“Did you hear him?” she said. “Did you hear him, Mr. Churchill. He casts off—he disowns me. Isn’t he a stern brother? And the quarrel is about nothing.” The impudence—or the presence of mind of it—overwhelmed me.