But Marion received her with
that defensive suspiciousness of the shy person, thinking only of the
possible criticism of herself; and my aunt, perceiving this, became
nervous and slangy...
"She says such queer things," said Marion once, discussing her. "But I
suppose it's witty."
"Yes," I said; "it IS witty."
"If I said things like she does--"
The queer things my aunt said were nothing to the queer things she
didn't say. I remember her in our drawing-room one day, and how she
cocked her eye--it's the only expression--at the India-rubber plant in a
Doulton-ware pot which Marion had placed on the corner of the piano.
She was on the very verge of speech. Then suddenly she caught my
expression, and shrank up like a cat that has been discovered looking at
the milk.
Then a wicked impulse took her.
"Didn't say an old word, George," she insisted, looking me full in the
eye.
I smiled. "You're a dear," I said, "not to," as Marion came lowering
into the room to welcome her. But I felt extraordinarily like a
traitor--to the India-rubber plant, I suppose--for all that nothing had
been said.
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