“Well,” said Aunt Aggie, dropping her needles. “What’s he done?” “Done!” Henry exclaimed, sinking his voice into a horrified and confidential whisper. “He’s been a dreadful man. Before, in Russia, there’s nothing he didn’t do. I know, because there’s a friend of mine who knew him very well out there. He lived a terribly immoral life. He was notorious. He lived with a woman for years who wasn’t his wife, and they had a baby. There’s nothing he didn’t do—and he never told father a word.” Henry paused for breath. Aunt Aggie’s cheeks flushed crimson, as they always did when anyone spoke, before her, of sexual matters. At last she said, as though to herself: “I always knew it—I always knew it. You could see it in his face. I warned them, but they wouldn’t listen.” Henry meanwhile had recovered himself. He stood there looking into the Mirror. It was a tragic moment. He had done, after all, what, all these months, he had determined to prevent himself from doing. He saw now, in a flash of accusing anger, what would most certainly follow. Aunt Aggie would tell everyone. Philip would be dismissed—Katherine’s heart would be broken. He saw nothing but Katherine, Katherine whom he loved with all the ardour of his strange undisciplined quixotic soul. He saw Katherine turning to him, reproaching him, then, hiding her grief, pursuing her old life, unhappy for ever and ever. (At this stage in his development, he saw everything in terms of ‘for ever and for ever’.) It never occurred to him that if Philip were expelled out of the Trenchard Eden Katherine might accompany him. No, she would remain, a heart-broken monument to Henry’s lack of character. He scowled at his aunt, who sat there thrilled and indignant and happy. “I say!” he burst out. “Of course you mustn’t tell anybody!” Aunt Aggie nodded her head and her needles clicked. “It must remain with wiser and older heads than yours, Henry, as to what ought to be done ...” then to herself again: “Ah, they’ll wish they’d listened to me now.” “But I say,” repeated Henry, red in the face, standing in front of her, “you really mustn’t. I told it you as a secret.” “A secret! When everyone in London knows! A nice thing they’ll all think—letting Katherine marry a man with such a reputation!” “No, but look here—_you_ wouldn’t have known anything if I hadn’t told you—and you mustn’t do anything—you mustn’t really. Katie loves him—more than ever—and if she were to lose him—” “Much better for her to lose him,” said Aunt Aggie firmly, “than for her to be miserable for life—much better. Besides, think of the abominable way the man’s deceived us! Why, he’s no better than a common thief! He—” “Perhaps he hasn’t deceived her,” interrupted Henry. “Perhaps he’s told her—”