Penniman.
This was the account of the matter that she gave to her sister, and
it was perhaps with the consciousness of genius that, on her return
that evening to Washington Square, she again presented herself for
admittance at Catherine's door. Catherine came and opened it; she
was apparently very quiet.
"I only want to give you a little word of advice," she said. "If
your father asks you, say that everything is going on."
Catherine stood there, with her hand on the knob looking at her aunt,
but not asking her to come in. "Do you think he will ask me?"
"I am sure he will. He asked me just now, on our way home from your
Aunt Elizabeth's. I explained the whole thing to your Aunt
Elizabeth. I said to your father I know nothing about it."
"Do you think he will ask me when he sees--when he sees--?" But here
Catherine stopped.
"The more he sees the more disagreeable he will be," said her aunt.
"He shall see as little as possible!" Catherine declared.
"Tell him you are to be married."
"So I am," said Catherine softly; and she closed the door upon her
aunt.
She could not have said this two days later--for instance, on
Tuesday, when she at last received a letter from Morris Townsend. It
was an epistle of considerable length, measuring five large square
pages, and written at Philadelphia. It was an explanatory document,
and it explained a great many things, chief among which were the
considerations that had led the writer to take advantage of an urgent
"professional" absence to try and banish from his mind the image of
one whose path he had crossed only to scatter it with ruins.
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