The question was so sudden and unexpected that Clara gave quite a jump in her chair.  “I—­I—­I hardly ever have thought of your nephew Charles.”

“No?  Oh, you must think him well over, for I want to speak to you about him.”

“To me?  But why?”

“It seemed to me most delicate.  You see, Clara, the matter stands in this way.  It is quite possible that I may soon find myself in a completely new sphere of life, which will involve fresh duties and make it impossible for me to keep up a household which Charles can share.”

Clara stared.  Did this mean that she was about to marry again?  What else could it point to?

“Therefore Charles must have a household of his own.  That is obvious.  Now, I don’t approve of bachelor establishments.  Do you?”

“Really, Mrs. Westmacott, I have never thought of the matter.”

“Oh, you little sly puss!  Was there ever a girl who never thought of the matter?  I think that a young man of six-and-twenty ought to be married.”

Clara felt very uncomfortable.  The awful thought had come upon her that this ambassadress had come to her as a proxy with a proposal of marriage.  But how could that be?  She had not spoken more than three or four times with her nephew, and knew nothing more of him than he had told her on the evening before.  It was impossible, then.  And yet what could his aunt mean by this discussion of his private affairs?

“Do you not think yourself,” she persisted, “that a young man of six-and-twenty is better married?”

“I should think that he is old enough to decide for himself.”

“Yes, yes.  He has done so.  But Charles is just a little shy, just a little slow in expressing himself.  I thought that I would pave the way for him.  Two women can arrange these things so much better.  Men sometimes have a difficulty in making themselves clear.”

“I really hardly follow you, Mrs. Westmacott,” cried Clara in despair.

“He has no profession.  But he has nice tastes.  He reads Browning every night.  And he is most amazingly strong.  When he was younger we used to put on the gloves together, but I cannot persuade him to now, for he says he cannot play light enough.  I should allow him five hundred, which should be enough at first.”

“My dear Mrs. Westmacott,” cried Clara, “I assure you that I have not the least idea what it is that you are talking of.”

“Do you think your sister Ida would have my nephew Charles?”

Her sister Ida?  Quite a little thrill of relief and of pleasure ran through her at the thought.  Ida and Charles Westmacott.  She had never thought of it.  And yet they had been a good deal together.  They had played tennis.  They had shared the tandem tricycle.  Again came the thrill of joy, and close at its heels the cold questionings of conscience.  Why this joy?  What was the real source of it?