She seldom remembered whether she had dined, but
always presumed she had, and while she was telling me in all good
faith what the meal consisted of, it might be brought in. When in
London I had to hear daily what she was eating, and perhaps she had
refused all dishes until they produced the pen and ink. These were
flourished before her, and then she would say with a sigh, 'Tell
him I am to eat an egg.' But they were not so easily deceived;
they waited, pen in hand, until the egg was eaten.
She never 'went for a walk' in her life. Many long trudges she had
as a girl when she carried her father's dinner in a flagon to the
country place where he was at work, but to walk with no end save
the good of your health seemed a very droll proceeding to her. In
her young days, she was positive, no one had ever gone for a walk,
and she never lost the belief that it was an absurdity introduced
by a new generation with too much time on their hands. That they
enjoyed it she could not believe; it was merely a form of showing
off, and as they passed her window she would remark to herself with
blasting satire, 'Ay, Jeames, are you off for your walk?' and add
fervently, 'Rather you than me!' I was one of those who walked,
and though she smiled, and might drop a sarcastic word when she saw
me putting on my boots, it was she who had heated them in
preparation for my going.
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