I found him there one day, most Napoleonic, on
a little Elba of dirt, in an atmosphere that defies print. He also, I
remember, chose what he considered cheerful contrasts of colours for the
painting of the woodwork. This exasperated my aunt extremely--she
called him a "Pestilential old Splosher" with an unusual note of
earnestness--and he also enraged her into novelties of abuse by giving
each bedroom the name of some favourite hero--Cliff, Napoleon, Caesar,
and so forth--and having it painted on the door in gilt letters on
a black label. "Martin Luther" was kept for me. Only her respect for
domestic discipline, she said, prevented her retaliating with "Old
Pondo" on the housemaid's cupboard.
Also he went and ordered one of the completest sets of garden requisites
I have ever seen--and had them all painted a hard clear blue. My aunt
got herself large tins of a kindlier hued enamel and had everything
secretly recoated, and this done, she found great joy in the garden and
became an ardent rose grower and herbaceous borderer, leaving her Mind,
indeed, to damp evenings and the winter months.
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