Diane started.
"Aunt Agatha," she exclaimed, "what is it? For heaven's sake, don't
sob and tremble so."
"I--I might have known it!" sobbed Aunt Agatha, wringing her plump
hands in genuine distress. "I might have guessed they would tell you
that, though how in the world they found it out is beyond me. If I'd
only listened instead of worrying about my knees and the revolver, and
staring so. And you in the Everglades--where your father went to hunt
alligators. Oh, Diane, Diane, not a single night could I sleep--and
it's not to be wondered at that I was scared. And the dance you did
for Nathalie Fowler and me--and the costume that night at Sherrill's.
I was fairly sick! I knew it would come out--though how could I
foresee that the Baron and Mr. Poynter and the Prince would know? I--I
told your grandfather so years ago, but he pledged me on his
deathbed--and your father was wild and clever like Carl and singular in
his notions. I'll never forget your grandfather's face when you ran
away into the forest to sleep as a child. He was white and sick and
muttered something about atavism. It--it was the Indian blood--"
Diane caught her aunt's trembling arm in a grip that hurt cruelly.
"Aunt Agatha," she said, catching her breath sharply, "you must not
talk so wildly.
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