what I’d much rather not say? What I say is only for your own sake, my child.”
“There’s nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia,” said Katharine, with apparent good humour.
“People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Cassandra, and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markham’s dance he sat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together. They left together. They never came back here till seven in the evening. But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked—he is quite different when she is there.”
Mrs. Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voice had raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked intently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication. A slight rigidity had passed over Katharine’s face. Her lips were pressed together; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed upon the curtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time from the outside; her aunt’s words made her realize how infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.
“Well?” she said at length.
Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not returned.
“We all know how good you are—how unselfish—how you sacrifice yourself to others. But you’ve been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made Cassandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness.”
“I don’t understand, Aunt Celia,” said Katharine. “What has Cassandra done?”
“Cassandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought possible,” said Mrs. Milvain warmly: “She
