'That's a mistake,' says my
mother. 'When I come upon a woman in a book, the first thing I
want to know about her is whether she was good-looking, and the
second, how she was put on.'
The woman on the path was eighteen years of age, and of remarkable
beauty.
'That settles you,' says my sister.
'I was no beauty at eighteen,' my mother admits, but here my father
interferes unexpectedly. 'There wasna your like in this
countryside at eighteen,' says he stoutly.
'Pooh!' says she, well pleased.
'Were you plain, then?' we ask.
'Sal,' she replies briskly, 'I was far from plain.'
'H'sh!'
Perhaps in the next chapter this lady (or another) appears in a
carriage.
'I assure you we're mounting in the world,' I hear my mother
murmur, but I hurry on without looking up. The lady lives in a
house where there are footmen - but the footmen have come on the
scene too hurriedly. 'This is more than I can stand,' gasps my
mother, and just as she is getting the better of a fit of laughter,
'Footman, give me a drink of water,' she cries, and this sets her
off again. Often the readings had to end abruptly because her
mirth brought on violent fits of coughing.
Sometimes I read to my sister alone, and she assured me that she
could not see my mother among the women this time. This she said
to humour me. Presently she would slip upstairs to announce
triumphantly, 'You are in again!'
Or in the small hours I might make a confidant of my father, and
when I had finished reading he would say thoughtfully, 'That lassie
is very natural.
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