“Don’t you remember?” “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Aldwinkle nodded. “What about it?” “Well,” Irene went on, still painfully embarrassed, “you see ... that made me ... that made me pay attention, if you understand.” “Hm,” said Mrs. Aldwinkle. There was a silence. Getting old, getting old, repeated the little clock remorselessly. Irene leaned forward and suddenly boiled over with confidences. “I love him so much, Aunt Lilian,” she said, speaking very rapidly, “so much, so much. It’s the real thing this time. And he loves me too. And we’re going to get married at the New Year, quite quietly; no fuss, no crowds shoving in on what isn’t their business; quietly and sensibly in a registry office. And after that we’re going in the Velox to....” “What are you talking about?” said Mrs. Aldwinkle in a furious voice, and she turned round on her niece a face expressive of such passionate anger that Irene drew back, not merely astonished, but positively afraid. “You don’t mean to tell me,” Mrs. Aldwinkle began; but she could not find the words to continue. “What have you two young fools been thinking about?” she got out at last. ... old, getting old; the remorseless ticking made itself heard in every silence. From being merry and excited in its childishness Irene’s face had become astonished and miserable. She was pale, her lips trembled a little as she spoke. “But I thought you’d be glad, Aunt Lilian,” she said. “I thought you’d be glad.” “Glad because you’re making fools of yourselves?” asked Mrs. Aldwinkle, savagely snorting. “But it was you who first suggested,” Irene began. Mrs. Aldwinkle cut her short, before she could say any more, with a brusqueness that might have revealed to a more practised psychologist than Irene her consciousness of being in the wrong. “Absurd,” she said. “I suppose you’re going to tell me,” she went on sarcastically, “that it was I who told you to marry him.” “I know you didn’t,” said Irene. “There!” Mrs. Aldwinkle’s tone was triumphant. “But you did say you wondered why I wasn’t in love....” “Bah,” said Aunt Lilian, “I was just making fun. Calf loves....” “But why shouldn’t I marry him?” asked Irene. “If I love him and he loves me. Why shouldn’t I?” Why shouldn’t she? Yes, that was an awkward question. Getting old, getting old, muttered the clock in the brief ensuing silence. Perhaps that was half the answer. Getting old! they were all going; first Chelifer, then Calamy, now Irene. Getting old, getting old; soon she’d be quite alone. And it wasn’t only that. It was also her pride that was hurt, her love of dominion that suffered. Irene had been her slave; had worshipped her, taken her word as law, her opinions as gospel truth. Now she was transferring her allegiance. Mrs. Aldwinkle was losing a subject—losing her to a more powerful rival. It was intolerable. “Why shouldn’t you marry him?” Mrs. Aldwinkle repeated the phrase ironically two or three times, while she hunted for the answer. “Why shouldn’t you marry him?”