A philosophy distinctly Aunt Mary’s.

Uncle Tom, after he had listened without comment that evening to her account of this conversation, was of the opinion that to take Honora to task for her fancies would be waste of breath; that they would right themselves as she grew up.

“I’m afraid it’s inheritance, Tom,” said Aunt Mary, at last.  “And if so, it ought to be counteracted.  We’ve seen other signs of it.  You know Honora has little or no idea of the value of money—­or of its ownership.”

“She sees little enough of it,” Uncle Tom remarked with a smile.

“Tom.”

“Well.”

“Sometimes I think I’ve done wrong not to dress her more simply.  I’m afraid it’s given the child a taste for—­for self-adornment.”

“I once had a fond belief that all women possessed such a taste,” said Uncle Tom, with a quizzical look at his own exception.  “To tell you the truth, I never classed it as a fault.”

“Then I don’t see why you married me,” said Aunt Mary—­a periodical remark of hers.  “But, Tom, I do wish her to appear as well as the other children, and (Aunt Mary actually blushed) the child has good looks.”

“Why don’t you go as far as old Catherine, and call her a princess?” he asked.

“Do you want me to ruin her utterly?” exclaimed Aunt Mary.

Uncle Tom put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and looked down into her face, and smiled again.  Although she held herself very straight, the top of her head was very little above the level of his chin.

“It strikes me that you are entitled to some little indulgence in life, Mary,” he said.

One of the curious contradictions of Aunt Mary’s character was a never dying interest, which held no taint of envy, in the doings of people more fortunate than herself.  In the long summer days, after her silver was cleaned and her housekeeping and marketing finished, she read in the book-club periodicals of royal marriages, embassy balls, of great town and country houses and their owners at home and abroad.  And she knew, by means of a correspondence with Cousin Eleanor Hanbury and other intimates, the kind of cottages in which her friends sojourned at the seashore or in the mountains; how many rooms they had, and how many servants, and very often who the servants were; she was likewise informed on the climate, and the ease with which it was possible to obtain fresh vegetables.  And to all of this information Uncle Tom would listen, smiling but genuinely interested, while he carved at dinner.

One evening, when Uncle Tom had gone to play piquet with Mr. Isham, who was ill, Honora further surprised her aunt by exclaiming:  “How can you talk of things other people have and not want them, Aunt Mary?”

“Why should I desire what I cannot have, my dear?  I take such pleasure out of my friends’ possessions as I can.”

“But you want to go to the seashore, I know you do.  I’ve heard you say so,” Honora protested.