- pants of the table with a quietly ironical eye. And then
as she seated herself at her leisure, as far as she could get from the object of her remarks, she proceeded in the peculiar but remarkably agreeable voice which she had in common with her father and sisters: "Odd we should run into you coming out of the Park."
"Why odd?" said Aunt Charlotte, an elderly, large-featured blonde, whose theory of life was as far as possible not to cherish illusions on any subject. "I always go in at twelve, you always come out at twelve. Nothing odd about it. Thank you!"
"Thank you," meant, "Yes, I will take claret." It also meant, "Get on with your luncheon, Marjorie, and don't be absurd. Life is too complicated nowadays for such small talk as yours to interest an intelligent person."
Aunt Charlotte, if not consciously rude, was by nature exceedingly dominant. For twenty-five years, in one way or another, Bridport House had known her yoke. She was the Duke's only surviving sister, and she lived in Hill Street, among the dowagers. Her status was nil, but her love of power was so great that she had gained an uncomfortable ascendancy in the family councils. While free to admire Aunt Charlotte's wisdom, which was supposed to be boundless, the Dinneford ladies dislike her in the marrow of their bones. But Fate had played against them. Their father had been left a widower with a young family, and from the hour of his loss his sister had taken upon herself to mother it. She had done so to her own satisfaction, but the objects of her regard bore her no gratitude. From Sarah, who was thirty-nine, to Marjorie, who was twenty-eight, they were ever ready to try a fall with Aunt Charlotte.
