terested so
he drew his chair nearer and nearer, till at length, having withdrawn
inch by inch to avoid his encroachments, my aunt was sitting on the
extreme edge of her own. His next move sent her on to the floor. She
said nothing, which surprised me; but on the occasion of his next
visit she was busy darning stockings, an unusual occupation for her.
He approached nearer and nearer as before; but this time she sat
her ground, and it was he who in course of time sprang back with an
exclamation foreign to the subject under discussion.

Ever afterwards my aunt met him with stockings in her hand, and they
talked with a space between their chairs.

Nothing further came of it, though his being a widower added to their
intercourse that spice of possibility no woman is ever too old to
relish; but that he admired her intellectually was evident. Once he
even went so far as to exclaim: "Miss Davies, you should have been a
solicitor's wife!" to his thinking the crown of feminine ambition. To
which my aunt had replied: "Chances are I should have been if one had
ever asked me." And warmed by appreciation, my aunt's amiability took
root and flourished, though assuming, as all growth developed late is
apt to, fantastic shape.

There came to her the idea, by no means ill-founded, that by flattery
one can most readily render oneself agreeable; so conscientiously she
set to work to flatter in season and out. I am sure she meant to give
pleasure, but the effect produced was that of thinly veiled sarcasm.

My father would relate to us some trifling story, some incident noticed
during the day that had seemed to him amusing. At once she would break
out into enthusiasm, holding up her hands in astonishment.

"What a funny man he is! And to think that it comes to him naturally
without an effort. What a gift it is!"

On my mother appearing in a new bonnet, or an old one retrimmed, an
event not unfrequent; for in these days my mother took more thought than
ever formerly for her appearance (you will understand, you women who
have loved), she would step back in simulated amazement.

"Don't tell me it's a married woman with a boy getting on for fourteen.
It's a girl. A saucy, tripping girl. That's what it is."

Persons have been known, I believe, whose vanity, not checked in time,
has grown into a hopeless disease. But I am inclined to think that a
dose of my aunt, about this period, would have cured the most obstinate
case.

So also, an