“But I assure you, Marcus, that there is a hint of scandal abroad. It is actually said that she is living here.”
“People will say anything, true or untrue,” said I.
My aunt sighfully acquiesced, and for a while we discussed the depravity of human nature.
“I have been thinking,” she said at last, “that if you brought your ward to see us, and she could accompany us on this cruise to Norway, the scandal would be scotched outright.”
She glanced at me very keenly, and beneath her indulgent smile I saw the hardness of the old campaigner. It was a clever trap she had prepared for me.
I took her hand and in my noblest manner, like the exiled vicomte in costume drama, bent over it and kissed her finger-tips.
“I thank you, my dear aunt, for your generous faith in my integrity,” I said, “and I assure you your confidence is well founded.”
A loud, gay laugh from the other room interrupted me.
“Are you two rehearsing private theatricals?” cried Dora. As I was attired in a remarkably old college blazer and a pair of yellow Moorish slippers bought a couple of years ago in Tangier, and as my hair was straight on end, owing to a habit of passing my fingers through it while I work, my attitude perhaps did not strike a spectator as being so noble as I had imagined. I took advantage of the anti-climax, however, to bring my aunt from the balcony to the centre of the room, where Dora joined us.
“Well, has mother prevailed?”