part of them was that they had on the contrary their source in her truthfulness. 'Oh, my aunt changes,' she answered; 'it's so terribly dull—I suppose she's tired.'
'But you told me that she wanted more and more to be alone.'
Poor Miss Tita coloured, as if she found me over-insistent. 'Well, if you don't believe she wants to see you—I haven't invented it! I think people often are capricious when they are very old.'
'That's perfectly true. I only wanted to be clear as to whether you have repeated to her what I told you the other night.'
'What you told me?'
'About Jeffrey Aspern—that I am looking for materials.'
'If I had told her do you think she would have sent for you?'
'That's exactly what I want to know. If she wants to keep him to herself she might have sent for me to tell me so.'
'She won't speak of him,' said Miss Tita. Then as she opened the door she added in a lower tone, 'I have told her nothing.'
The old woman was sitting in the same place in which I had seen her last, in the same position, with the same mystifying bandage over her eyes. Her welcome was to turn her almost invisible face to me and show me that while she sat silent she saw me clearly. I made no motion to shake hands with her; I felt too well on this occasion that that was out of place for ever. It had been sufficiently enjoined upon me that she was too sacred for that sort of reciprocity—too venerable to touch. There was something
