Not, at any rate, to go on not having it.
Then we should see."
"We should indeed!" said Kate Croy. It was talk of a kind she loathed, but if Marian chose to be vulgar what was one to do?
It made her think of the Miss Condrips with renewed aversion. "I like the way you arrange things—I like what you take for granted.
If it's so easy for us to marry men who want us to scatter gold, I wonder we any of us do anything else.
I don't see so many of them about, nor what interest I might ever have for them. You live, my dear," she presently added, "in a world of vain thoughts."
"Not so much as you, Kate; for I see what I see, and you can't turn it off that way." The elder sister paused long enough for the younger's face to show, in spite of superiority, an apprehension. "I'm not talking of any man but Aunt Maud's man, nor of any money, even, if you like, but Aunt Maud's money.
I'm not talking of anything but your doing what she wants.
You're wrong if you speak of anything that I want of you; I want nothing but what she does.
That's good enough for me!"—and Marian's tone struck her companion as dreadful. "If I don't believe in Merton Densher, I do at least in Mrs. Lowder."
"Your ideas are the more striking," Kate returned, "that they're the same as papa's.
I had them from him, you may be interested to know—and with all the brilliancy you may imagine—yesterday."
Marian clearly was interested to know.
"He has been to see you?"
"No, I went to him."
"Really?" Marian wondered. "For what purpose?"
"To tell him I'm ready to go to him."
Marian stared.
"To leave Aunt Maud——?"
"For my father, yes."
She had fairly flushed, poor Mrs. Condrip, with horror.
"You're ready——?"
"So I told him.
I couldn't tell him less."
"And, pray, could you tell him more?" Marian gasped in her distress. "What in the world is he to us?
You bring out such a thing as that this way?"
They faced each other—the tears were in Marian's eyes.
Kate watched them there a moment and then said:
"I had thought it well over—over and over.
But you needn't feel injured.
I'm not going.
He won't have me."
Her companion still panted—it took time to subside.
"Well, I wouldn't have you—wouldn't receive you at all, I can assure you—if he had made you any other answer.
I do feel injured—at your having been willing.
If you were to go to papa, my dear, you would have to stop coming to me." Marian put it thus, indefinably, as a picture of privation from which her companion might shrink.
Such were the threats she could complacently make, could think herself masterful for making. "But if he won't take you," she continued, "he shows at least his sharpness."
Marian had always her views of sharpness; she was, as her sister privately commented, great on it.
But Kate had her refuge from irritation.
"He won't take me," she simply repeated. "But he believes, like you, in Aunt Maud.
He threatens me with his curse if I leave her."
"So you won't?" As the girl at first said nothing her companion caught at it. "You won't, of course?
I see you won't.
But I don't see why, nevertheless, I shouldn't insist to you once for all on the plain truth of the whole matter.
The truth, my dear, of your duty.
Do you ever think about that?
It's the greatest duty of all."
"There you are again," Kate laughed. "Papa's also immense on my duty."
"Oh, I don't pretend to be immense, but I pretend to know more than you do of life; more even perhaps than papa." Marian seemed to see that personage at this moment, nevertheless, in the light of a kinder irony. "Poor old papa!" She sighed it with as many condonations as her sister's ear had more than once caught in her
"Dear old Aunt Maud!"