“Why shouldn’t I?” Irene asked again. There were tears in her eyes; but however unhappy she might look, there was something determined and indomitable in her attitude, something obstinate in her expression and her tone of voice. Mrs. Aldwinkle had reason to fear her rival. “Because you’re too young,” she said at last. It was a very feeble answer; but she had been unable to think of a better one. “But, Aunt Lilian, don’t you remember? You always said that people ought to marry young. I remember so well, one time, when we talked about Juliet being only fourteen when she first saw Romeo, that you said....” “That has nothing to do with it,” said Mrs. Aldwinkle, cutting short her niece’s mnemonic display. Irene’s memory, Mrs. Aldwinkle had often had reason to complain, was really too good. “But if you said ...” Irene began again. “Romeo and Juliet have nothing to do with you and Hovenden,” retorted Mrs. Aldwinkle. “I repeat: you’re too young.” “I’m nineteen.” “Eighteen.” “Practically nineteen,” Irene insisted. “My birthday’s in December.” “Marry in haste and repent at leisure,” said Mrs. Aldwinkle, making use of any missive, even a proverb, that came ready to hand. “At the end of six months you’ll come back howling and complaining and asking me to get you out of the mess.” “But why should I?” asked Irene. “We love one another.” “They all say that. You don’t know your own minds.” “But we do.” Mrs. Aldwinkle suddenly changed her tactics. “And what makes you so anxious all at once to run away from me?” she asked. “Can’t you bear to stay with me a moment longer? Am I so intolerable and odious and ... and ... brutal and....” She clawed at the air. “Do you hate me so much that....” “Aunt Lilian!” protested Irene, who had begun to cry in earnest. Mrs. Aldwinkle, with that tactlessness, that lack of measure that were characteristic of her, went on piling question upon rhetorical question, until in the end she completely spoiled the effect she had meant to achieve, exaggerating into ludicrousness what might otherwise have been touching. “Can’t you bear me? Have I ill-treated you? Tell me. Have I bullied you, or scolded you, or ... or not given you enough to eat? Tell me.” “How can you talk like that, Aunt Lilian?” Irene dabbed her eyes with a corner of her dressing-gown. “How can you say that I don’t love you? And you were always telling me that I ought to get married,” she added, breaking out into fresh tears. “How can I say that you don’t love me?” echoed Mrs. Aldwinkle. “But is it true that you’re longing to leave me as soon as possible? Is that true or not? I merely ask what the reason is, that’s all.” “But the reason is that we want to get married; we love each other.” “Or that you hate me,” Mrs. Aldwinkle persisted. “But I don’t hate you, Aunt Lilian. How can you say such a thing? You know I love you.”