has been utterly selfish—utterly heartless. I must speak to her before I go.”
“I don’t understand,” Katharine persisted.
Mrs. Milvain looked at her. Was it possible that Katharine really doubted? that there was something that Mrs. Milvain herself did not understand? She braced herself, and pronounced the tremendous words:
“Cassandra has stolen William’s love.”
Still the words seemed to have curiously little effect.
“Do you mean,” said Katharine, “that he has fallen in love with her?”
“There are ways of making men fall in love with one, Katharine.”
Katharine remained silent. The silence alarmed Mrs. Milvain, and she began hurriedly:
“Nothing would have made me say these things but your own good. I have not wished to interfere; I have not wished to give you pain. I am a useless old woman. I have no children of my own. I only want to see you happy, Katharine.”
Again she stretched forth her arms, but they remained empty.
“You are not going to say these things to Cassandra,” said Katharine suddenly. “You’ve said them to me; that’s enough.”
Katharine spoke so low and with such restraint that Mrs. Milvain had to strain to catch her words, and when she heard them she was dazed by them.
“I’ve made you angry! I knew I should!” she exclaimed. She quivered, and a kind of sob shook her; but even to have made Katharine angry was some relief, and allowed her to feel some of the agreeable sensations of martyrdom.
“Yes,” said Katharine, standing up, “I’m so angry that I don’t want to say anything more. I think you’d better go, Aunt Celia. We don’t understand each other.”
