"Yes, I suppose so," he said.
"There's a man in New York who just worships Aunt Tommy," I said. "He writes her most every day and sends her books and music and elegant presents. I guess she's pretty fond of him too. She keeps his photograph on her bedroom table and I've seen her kissing it."
I stopped there, not because I had said all I had to say, but because Dick's face scared me—honest, it did. It had all gone white, like it does in the pulpit sometimes when he is tremendously in earnest, only ten times worse. But all he said was,
"Is your Aunt Bertha engaged to this—this man?"
"Not exactly engaged," I said, "but I guess anybody else who wants to marry her will have to reckon with him."
Dick got up.
"I think I won't wait this evening," he said.
"I wish you'd stay and have a talk with me," I said. "I haven't had a talk with you for ages and I have a million things to tell you."
Dick smiled as if it hurt him to smile.
"I can't tonight, Jacky. Some other time we'll have a good powwow, old chap."