Always it was he who shopped. My aunt
did not shine as a purchaser. It is a curious thing, due to I know not
what fine strain in her composition, that my aunt never set any great
store upon possessions. She plunged through that crowded bazaar of
Vanity Fair during those feverish years, spending no doubt freely and
largely, but spending with detachment and a touch of humorous contempt
for the things, even the "old" things, that money can buy. It came to
me suddenly one afternoon just how detached she was, as I saw her going
towards the Hardingham, sitting up, as she always did, rather stiffly
in her electric brougham, regarding the glittering world with interested
and ironically innocent blue eyes from under the brim of a hat that
defied comment. "No one," I thought, "would sit so apart if she hadn't
dreams--and what are her dreams?"
I'd never thought.
And I remember, too, an outburst of scornful description after she had
lunched with a party of women at the Imperial Cosmic Club. She came
round to my rooms on the chance of finding me there, and I gave her
tea.
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