“I knew what Mother wanted, to get over being angry with Cousin Parnelia.  And she was.  I could see it in her face, like somebody in church.  I felt it myself—­all over, like an E string that’s been pulled too high, slipping down into tune when you turn the peg.  But I didn’t want to feel it.  I wanted to hate Cousin Parnelia.  I thought it was awfully hard in Mother not to want us to have even the satisfaction of hating Cousin Parnelia!  I tried to go on doing it.  I remember I cried a little.  But Mother never said a word—­just sat there in that quiet autumn sunshine, watching the leaves falling—­falling—­and I had to do as she did.  And by and by I felt, just as she did, that Cousin Parnelia was only a very small part of something very big.

“When we went in, Mother’s face was just as it always was, and we got Cousin Parnelia a cup of tea and gave her part of a boiled ham to take home and a dozen eggs and a loaf of graham bread, just as though nothing had happened.”

She stopped speaking.  There was no sound at all but the delicate, forlorn whisper of the leaves.

“That is a very fine story!” said Page finally.  He spoke with a measured, emphatic, almost solemn accent.

“Yes, it’s a very fine story,” murmured Sylvia a little wistfully.  “It’s finer as a story than it was as real life.  It was years before I could look at blue corduroy without feeling stirred up.  I really cared more about my clothes than I did about that stupid, ignorant old woman.  If it’s only a cheerful giver the Lord loves, He didn’t feel much affection for me.”

They began to retrace their steps.  “You gave up the blue corduroy,” he commented as they walked on, “and you didn’t scold your silly old kinswoman.”

“That’s only because Mother hypnotized me. She has character.  I did it as Louis signed the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, because Madame de Maintenon thought he ought to.”

“But she couldn’t hypnotize your brother Lawrence, althought he was so much younger.  He didn’t give up his thirty-seven cents.  I think you’re bragging without cause if you claim any engaging and picturesque absence of character.”

“Oh, Lawrence—­he’s different!  He’s extraordinary!  Sometimes I think he is a genius.  And it’s Judith who hypnotizes him. She supplies his character.”

They emerged into an opening and walked in silence for some moments towards the Grand Trianon.

“You’re lucky, very lucky,” commented Page, “to have such an ample supply of character in the family.  I’m an only child.  There’s nobody to give me the necessary hypodermic supply of it at the crucial moments.”  He went on, turning his head to look at the Great Trianon, very mellow in the sunshine.  “It’s my belief, however, that at the crucial moments you have plenty of it of your own.”