With great deliberation Benson put aside the book he had been reading.
“Sit down, Stephen,” he said, indicating a chair. There was a firm set to his lips, and Stephen felt that he had waited up for him, impelled by a purpose that might not be entirely pleasant. “Stephen, when did you see your aunt last?” said the old lawyer sharply.
“To-day—to-night, I took supper there. I went there from the Nortons.”
Benson smoothed the thin white hair that lay on his temples, with thin well-shaped hand.
“I suppose,” he began thoughtfully, “that your aunt has few, if any, secrets that exclude them.”
“If she has, I don't know what they are,” said Stephen.
“And her opinions are their opinions. Was my name mentioned?”
“Yes—they—”
“Never mind the connection, Stephen,” he interjected austerely. He was silent for a moment, but the movement of his hand continued. “Naturally you can't quite agree with them.” He favoured Stephen with a shrewd scrutiny.
“I do not,” and Stephen met his glance frankly.