Catherine for some time never moved; she kept her eyes on the coals. At last she raised her head and looked at her aunt. “Why do you push me so?” she asked. “I don’t push you. When have I spoken to you before?” “It seems to me that you have spoken to me several times.” “I am afraid it is necessary, then, Catherine,” said Mrs. Penniman, with a good deal of solemnity. “I am afraid you don’t feel the importance—” She paused a little; Catherine was looking at her. “The importance of not disappointing that gallant young heart!” And Mrs. Penniman went back to her chair, by the lamp, and, with a little jerk, picked up the evening paper again. Catherine stood there before the fire, with her hands behind her, looking at her aunt, to whom it seemed that the girl had never had just this dark fixedness in her gaze. “I don’t think you understand—or that you know me,” she said. “If I don’t, it is not wonderful; you trust me so little.” Catherine made no attempt to deny this charge, and for some time more nothing was said. But Mrs. Penniman’s imagination was restless, and the evening paper failed on this occasion to enchain it. “If you succumb to the dread of your father’s wrath,” she said, “I don’t know what will become of us.” “Did _he_ tell you to say these things to me?” “He told me to use my influence.” “You must be mistaken,” said Catherine. “He trusts me.” “I hope he may never repent of it!” And Mrs. Penniman gave a little sharp slap to her newspaper. She knew not what to make of her niece, who had suddenly become stern and contradictious. This tendency on Catherine’s part was presently even more apparent. “You had much better not make any more appointments with Mr. Townsend,” she said. “I don’t think it is right.” Mrs. Penniman rose with considerable majesty. “My poor child, are you jealous of me?” she inquired. “Oh, Aunt Lavinia!” murmured Catherine, blushing. “I don’t think it is your place to teach me what is right.” On this point Catherine made no concession. “It can’t be right to deceive.” “I certainly have not deceived _you_!” “Yes; but I promised my father—” “I have no doubt you promised your father. But I have promised him nothing!” Catherine had to admit this, and she did so in silence. “I don’t believe Mr. Townsend himself likes it,” she said at last. “Doesn’t like meeting me?” “Not in secret.” “It was not in secret; the place was full of people.” “But it was a secret place—away off in the Bowery.” Mrs. Penniman flinched a little. “Gentlemen enjoy such things,” she remarked presently. “I know what gentlemen like.” “My father wouldn’t like it, if he knew.” “Pray, do you propose to inform him?” Mrs. Penniman inquired. “No, Aunt Lavinia. But please don’t do it again.”