Miss Carrington shrugged her shoulders with an outward gesture of her open palms that ended her sentence for her eloquently, a trick that she had learned in her own long years abroad. A bright red spot burned in each cheek and her guarded eyes gleamed with the fire of ambition. Kit stared at her; she rarely revealed herself to this extent. He cried: “Aunt Anne, that’s all very fine, but would you have me marry a woman whom I did not love for ignoble, selfish motives?” “Ignoble!” cried his aunt, sharply. “Do you call ambitions such as any manly man would leap toward, ignoble? Why, what else is there in life but its prizes? The bigger the better, but prizes at least. Selfish, yes! Who isn’t selfish? Children are frightened by words, not men. Of course you’re selfish. But if you enjoy beclouding your conscience tell yourself you’ll use your attainment unselfishly. You won’t, but many better, cleverer men than you, my little Christopher, befuddle themselves with pretty terms. In the meantime win, win, win your ends! Let me tell you, Kit, that there’s more sensible unselfishness in marrying for prudence than for romance: the result of that endures!” Kit looked at his aunt with genuine pity. He knew that her ambition for him represented all that was in her of ideals, of love. A remembrance of Major Pendennis and young Arthur flitted across his mind; he pitied his aunt, but he feared lest one day he might pity himself. “You don’t know, Aunt Anne,” he said, gently. “It must be frightful to be married to someone whom you can’t love. In the marriage you urge upon me there would be neither love nor respect; I should not love my wife, nor respect myself. You can’t realize it, Aunt Anne.” “Bless the child!” cried Miss Carrington with a laugh. “Does he imagine himself at twenty-four wiser than a worldly old woman of sixty-eight? You mean that I can’t realize your bugaboo situation because I didn’t marry. But I was to marry once! Another woman stole my husband. There was excuse for her according to you, for I was going to marry him for ambition, and she loved him madly. I remained their friend, and I saw my vengeance. They were wretchedly unhappy, while I, with my ambition answering to his, would have crowned him.” Miss Carrington arose and drew herself up to her full height, which was equal to Kit’s. Her narrow slipper of black silk, simply bound, without an ornament, dropped off as she arose. Kit sprang to put it on for her. She leaned on his shoulder and watched him fit the slipper on her foot. She was inordinately proud of her long, narrow feet, and never adorned their apparel. “You see, my boy, I practise what I preach; I have ample space to stand in. Learn from the parable of the loose slipper and do not cramp your foundations.” She leaned forward to smile into Kit’s face, almost coquettishly.