"Yes, that's what it is," said Aunt Constance. And then in answer to a glance that, so to speak, asked for a confirmation of a telegram:—"Oh yes, I know we both mean the same thing. You were thinking of that old story—the old love-affair. I quite understand." She might have added "this time," because the last time she knew what Mr. Pellew meant she was stretching a point, and he was subconscious of it.
"That's the idea," said he. "I fancy Philippa's feelings must be rather difficult to define. So must his papa's, I should think."
"I can't fancy anything more embarrassing."
"Of course Tim has a mighty easy time of it, by comparison."
"Does he necessarily know anything about it?"
"He must have heard of it. It wasn't a secret, though it wasn't announced in the papers. These things get talked about. Besides, she would tell him."
"Tell him? Of course she would! She would tell him that that young Torrens was a 'great admirer' of hers."
"Yes—I suppose she would make use of some expression of that sort. Capital things, expressions!"
Aunt Constance seemed to think this phrase called for some sort of elucidation. "I always feel grateful," said she, "to that Frenchman—Voltaire or Talleyrand or Rochefoucauld or somebody—who said language was invented to conceal our thoughts. That was what you meant, wasn't it?"
"Precisely. I suppose Sir Torrens—this chap's papa—told the lady he married....