"My dear nephew," she interrupted, with tranquil force, as if she were
taking an arranged line, "I cannot--I absolutely cannot be worried with
your quarrels with your sister. As I said to you in my note of this
morning, when you are in this town you must consider this house your
home. It is almost insulting of you to go to an inn. I am told it is
even ... quite an unfit place that you are stopping at--for a member of
our family."

I maintained for a few seconds a silence of astonishment.

"But," I returned to the charge, "the matter is one of importance. You
must understand that she...."

My aunt stiffened and froze. It was as if I had committed some flagrant
sin against etiquette.

"If I am satisfied as to her behaviour," she said, "I think that you
might be." She paused as if she were satisfied that she had set me
hopelessly in the wrong.

"I don't withdraw my invitation," she said. "You must understand I
_wish_ you to come here. But your quarrels you and she must settle. On
those terms...."

She had the air of conferring an immense favour, as if she believed that
I had, all my life through, been waiting for her invitation to come
within the pale. As for me, I felt a certain relief at having the
carrying out of my duty made impossible for me. I did not _want_ to tell
my aunt and thus to break things off definitely and for good. Something