“It is unworthy of you to expect people to be prompt,” said Bumpus. “Such a cold, self-esteeming thing to be.”
“I am cold and self-esteeming,” said Theresa.
“It occurs to me,” said Francis, sinking back into his chair, “that it was just so with my mother. She used often to vex and grieve me, if it had been possible for me to be vexed or grieved by her, by doing for herself those little things that I should have liked to do for her. I used often to reason with her about it, but she always refused to hear reason.”
“I must just trot across to the post,” said Miss Lydia. “I have had to write to all my men, and tell them that my men’s class will not be held on Thursday. Dear souls, they will be so disappointed; but I could not help it, or I would indeed.”
“Let me go for you, Aunt Lyddie,” said Francis.
“No, I am a person who does my own business. And this business is mine. I am so sad to disappoint my dear men things, who understand me so. I don’t often fail them. Not often. And I don’t often fail with them. I know I am different with women. I admit it. But men don’t often elude me. Not often.”
“I feel I do elude Lyddie,” said Emily. “I am always having proof that I am the average woman. And Nicholas has taught me to despise it.”
“She seems very pleased with not failing with men, and failing with women,” said Theresa. “It would be better not to fail with either.”
“No, if you think a minute, not so good,” said Emily. “Not so nice, anyhow.”
“I don’t think myself so good,” said Bumpus. “Much less good, of course.”
“It is something not to fail with one, my dear,” said Mr. Fletcher.
“I knew you would say that, Peter,” said Theresa. “You self-righteous, obvious old man. I did not say it was not.”
“Be patient with me, my dear. I shall be older and wiser presently.”
“You will be older and not wiser. At our age people get less wise.”
“Yes, that is true, my dear. I shall do my best for you, when the time comes for you to consult me generally.”
Mr. Fletcher’s eyes took on a look of grateful content, as the door shut on the women. He welcomed a man’s companionship, and his friendship with Bumpus gave to his days a hidden light.
“I have been longing to have a word with a woman,” said Emily, sitting down with Theresa. “Nicholas is so terribly a man. You must find that with Peter, too.”
“Sometimes,” said Theresa.
“Only sometimes?” said Emily. “Yes, that is true about Peter. Nicholas is always a man. Life is just labour and sorrow for us. Labour for Nicholas and sorrow for me. You wouldn’t think that Nicholas would labour. But lately he has. His way of writing this book is so like what an ordinary writer’s, a real writer’s way would be. He says it is ready in his head. Nicholas can’t be like that. He says it came suddenly to him, when he was sitting up with Mr. Crabbe. But he must have had it in his mind; and he has given no sign at all. And Nicholas ought to have given so many signs. It can’t mean anything. Do you think him aged lately?”
“No, no, darling,” said Theresa. “Particularly well and cheerful.”
“That is being so pleased that he is going to be conspicuous and highly thought of,” said Emily. “He likes that much more even than the average man. In some ways Nicholas is built on a very large scale. I do hope it is all going to come off. I can hardly tell you how I hope it. He will be terribly shaken if it does not.”
“Well, why shouldn’t it?” said Theresa. “I wonder he hasn’t done it before.”
“So do I,” said Emily. “So does he. That is just it. At least, I don’t think I do, really. I shouldn’t have thought that Nicholas could write a book. Not a good book; not even just good enough.”
“Does your brother know what a good sister he has in you?” said Theresa.
“No,” said Emily. “He knows what a good brother I have in him. How I should have had to go on the streets, or even be a governess, without him.”
“You had your own income, dear,” said Theresa.
“A hundred a year,” said Emily, “Nicholas is kind, and without a true dignity. He calls that on the streets.”
“Well, but there is the other side to it all.”
“Of course there is my side. But Nicholas doesn’t see that. He is very thorough. He gives all his attention to one side.”
“You are very devoted to him?” said Theresa.
“You know how I feel to him as well as I do myself. How utterly I see through him, and yet how necessary he is to me. And how pathetic. It will break my heart if this wretched book goes wrong.”
“Does he feel the same to you? As strongly, I mean?”
“No,” said Emily. “You know he does not feel strongly like that about anyone. He is rather glad he has me. But he has a feeling that without me he would not have kept a school, and would have been a real writer. I think it might break him up if anything were to happen to me. You know that means if I were to die.”
“He only gives about ten minutes a day to the school,” said Theresa.
“Well, he couldn’t give any more,” said Emily. “I did not know you were one of those people who talk about Nicholas’ ten minutes. And he doesn’t see the other side. I told you.”
“Have you pointed it out to him, dear?”
“You know that would not make him see it. Apart from the way he already sees it. And I believe it is good for him to feel himself a kind of hero. It holds
