“Remorse?” said Kate.
“Yes, indeed. I hate to be a saint all the time. There ought to be vacations. Instead of suffering from a bad conscience, I suffer from a good one.”
“It was no merit of yours, aunt,” put in Harry. “Who was ever more agreeable and lovable than Malbone last night?”
“Lovable!” burst out Aunt Jane, who never could be managed or manipulated by anybody but Kate, and who often rebelled against Harry’s blunt assertions. “Of course he is lovable, and that is why I dislike him. His father was so before him. That is the worst of it. I never in my life saw any harm done by a villain; I wish I could. All the mischief in this world is done by lovable people. Thank Heaven, nobody ever dared to call me lovable!”
“I should like to see any one dare call you anything else,—you dear, old, soft-hearted darling!” interposed Kate.
“But, aunt,” persisted Harry, “if you only knew what the mass of young men are—”
“Don’t I?” interrupted the impetuous lady. “What is there that is not known to any woman who has common sense, and eyes enough to look out of a window?”
“If you only knew,” Harry went on, “how superior Phil Malbone is, in his whole tone, to any fellow of my acquaintance.”
“Lord help the rest!” she answered. “Philip has a sort of refinement instead of principles, and a heart instead of a conscience,—just heart enough to keep himself happy and everybody else miserable.”
“Do you mean to say,” asked the obstinate Hal, “that there is no difference between refinement and coarseness?”