She walked slowly—slowly, as if she were still thinking of something that was not in the room, as if she came into a quiet, empty room.
You thought at first she was never going to kiss you, she was so tall and her face and eyes held themselves so still.
Uncle Victor. Dark and white; smaller than Papa, smaller than Aunt Lavvy; thin in his loose frock-coat. His forehead and black eyebrows were twisted above his blue, beautiful eyes. He had a small dark brown moustache and a small dark brown beard, trimmed close and shaped prettily to a point. He looked like something, like somebody; like Dank when he was mournful, like Dank’s dog, Tibby, when he hid from Papa. He said, “Well, Caroline. Well, Emilius.”
Aunt Charlotte gave out sharp cries of “Dear!” and “Darling!” and smothered them against your face in a sort of moan.
When she came to Roddy she put up her hands.
“Roddy—yellow hair. No. No. What have you done with the blue eyes and black hair, Emilius? That comes of letting your beard grow so long.”
Then they all went into the dining-room.
It was like a birthday. There was to be real blancmange, and preserved ginger, and you drank raspberry vinegar out of the silver christening cups the aunts and uncles gave you when you were born. Uncle Victor had given Mary hers. She held it up and read her own name on it.
Mary Victoria Olivier
1863.
They were all telling their names. Mary took them up and chanted them: “Mark Emilius Olivier; Daniel Olivier; Rodney Olivier; Victor Justus Olivier; Lavinia Mary Olivier; Charlotte Louisa Olivier.” She liked the sound of them.
She sat between Uncle Victor and Aunt Lavvy. Roddy was squeezed into the corner between Mamma and Mark. Aunt Charlotte sat opposite her between Mark and Daniel. She had to look at Aunt Charlotte’s face. There were faint grey smears on it as if somebody had scribbled all over it with pencil.
A remarkable conversation.
“Aunt Lavvy! Aunt Lavvy! Have you brought your Opinions?”
“No, my dear, they were not invited. So I left them at home.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Papa said.
“Will you bring them next time?”
“No. Not next time, nor any other time,” Aunt Lavvy said, looking straight at Papa.
“Did you shut them up in the stair cupboard?”
“No, but I may have to some day.”
“Then,” Mary said, “if there are any little ones, may I have one?”
“May she, Emilius?”
“Certainly not,” Papa said. “She’s got too many little opinions of her own.”
“What do you know about opinions?” Uncle Victor said.
Mary was excited and happy. She had never been allowed to talk so much. She tried to eat her roast chicken in a businesslike, grown-up manner, while she talked.
“I’ve read about them,” she said. “They are dear little animals with long furry tails, much bigger than Sarah’s tail, and they climb up trees.”
“Oh, they climb up trees, do they?” Uncle Victor was very polite and attentive.
“Yes. There’s their picture in Bank’s Natural History Book. Next to the Ornythrincus or Duck-billed Plat-i-pus. If they came into the house Mamma would be frightened. But I would not be frightened. I should stroke them.”
“Do you think,” Uncle Victor said, still politely, “you quite know what you mean?”
“I know,” Daniel said, “she means opossums.”
“Yes,” Mary said. “Opossums.”
“What are opinions?”
“Opinions,” Papa said, “are things that people put in other people’s heads. Nasty, dangerous things, opinions.”
She thought: “That was why Mamma and Papa were frightened.”
“You won’t put them into Mamma’s head, will you, Aunt Lavvy?”
Mamma said, “Get on with your dinner. Papa’s only teasing.”
Aunt Lavvy’s face flushed slowly, and she held her mouth tight, as if she were trying not to cry. Papa was teasing Aunt Lavvy.
“How do you like that Ilford house, Charlotte?” Mamma asked suddenly.
“It’s the nicest little house you ever saw,” Aunt Charlotte said. “But it’s too far away. I’d rather have any ugly, poky old den that was next door. I want to see all I can of you and Emilius and Dan and little darling Mary. Before I go away.”
“You aren’t thinking of going away when you’ve only just come?”
“That’s what Victor and Lavinia say. But you don’t suppose I’m going to stay an old maid all my life to please Victor and Lavinia.”
“I haven’t thought about it at all,” Mamma said.
“They have. I know what they’re thinking. But it’s all settled. I’m going to Marshall and Snelgrove’s for my things. There’s a silver-grey poplin in their window. If I decide on it, Caroline, you shall have my grey watered silk.
“You needn’t waggle your big beard at me, Emilius,” Aunt Charlotte said.
Papa pretended that he hadn’t heard her and began to talk to Uncle Victor.
“Did you read John Bright’s speech in Parliament last night?”
Uncle Victor said, “I did.”
“What did you think of it?”
Uncle Victor raised his shoulders and his eyebrows and spread out his thin, small hands.
“A man with a face like that,” Aunt Charlotte said, “oughtn’t to be in Parliament.”
“He’s the man who saved England,” said Papa.
“What’s the good of that if he can’t save himself? Where does he expect to go to with the hats he wears?”
“Where does Emilius expect to go to,” Uncle Victor said, “when his John Bright and his Gladstone get their way?”
Suddenly Aunt Charlotte left off smiling.
“Emilius,” she said, “do you uphold Gladstone?”
“Of course I uphold Gladstone. There’s nobody in this country fit to black his boots.”
“I know nothing about his boots. But he’s an infidel. He wants to pull down the Church. I thought you were a Churchman?”
“So I am,” Papa said. “I’ve too good an opinion of the Church to imagine that it can’t stand alone.”
“You’re a nice one to talk about opinions.”
“At any rate I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Aunt Charlotte.
Aunt Lavvy smiled gently at the pattern of the tablecloth.
“Do you agree with him, Lavvy?” Mamma
