He was laughing at her, he patronised her! He dared—! She trembled with anger. “I shall never come and stay with you,” she said. “Aunt Aggie!” cried Katherine, who was sitting near her mother by the window. “No, never!” Aunt Aggie answered, her little eyes flashing and her cheeks shaking. “And if I had my way you should never be married!” They all knew then that at last the moment had come. Henry started to his feet as though he would escape, Katherine turned towards her mother, Philip fixed his eyes gravely upon his enemy—only Mrs. Trenchard did not pause in her writing. Aunt Aggie knew then that she was committed. She did not care, she was glad if only she could hurt Philip, that hateful and intolerable young man. Her hands trembled, her rings making a tiny clatter against the china; she saw only her sister-in-law and Philip. Philip quietly said: “Why do you hope that Katherine and I will never marry, Aunt Aggie?” “Because I love Katherine—because I—we want her to make a happy marriage. Because if she—knew what I know she would not marry you.” “My dear Aggie!” said Mrs. Trenchard, softly, from the writing-table—but she stayed her pen and waited, with her head turned a little, as though she would watch Katherine’s face without appearing to do so. “And what do you know,” pursued Philip quietly, “that would prevent Katherine from marrying me?” “I know,” she answered fiercely, the little gold cross that hung round her throat jumping against the agitation of her breast, “that you—that you are not the man to marry my niece. You have concealed things from her father which, if he had known, would have caused him to forbid you the house.” “Oh! I say!” cried Henry, suddenly jumping to his feet. “Well,” pursued Philip, “what are these things?” She paused for a moment, wondering whether Henry had had sufficient authority for his statements. Philip of course would deny everything—but she had now proceeded too far to withdraw. “I understand,” she said, “that you lived in Russia with a woman to whom you were not married—lived for some years, and had a child. This is, I am ashamed to say, common talk. I need scarcely add that I had not intended to bring this disgraceful matter up in this public fashion. But perhaps after all it is better. You have only yourself to blame, Mr. Mark,” she continued, “for your policy of secrecy. To allow us all to remain in ignorance of these things, to allow Katherine—but perhaps,” she asked, “you intend to deny everything? In that case—” “I deny nothing,” he answered. “This seems to me a very silly manner of discussing such a business.” He addressed his words then to Mrs. Trenchard. “I said nothing about these things,” he continued, “because, quite honestly, I could not see that it was anyone’s affair but my own and Katherine’s. I told Katherine everything directly after we were engaged.” At that Aunt Aggie turned upon her niece.