The duty-impulse, stimulated by my call yesterday on one aunt by
marriage, led my footsteps this afternoon to the house of the
other, Mrs. Ralph Ordeyne. She is of a different type from her
sister-in-law, being a devout Roman Catholic, and since the
terrible affliction of two years ago has concerned herself more
deeply than ever in the affairs of her religion. She lives in a
gloomy little house in a sunless Kensington by-street. Only my
Cousin Rosalie was at home. She gave me tea made with tepid
water and talked about the Earl's Court Exhibition, which she had
not visited, and a new novel, of which she had vaguely heard. I
tried in vain to infuse some life into the conversation. I don't
believe she is interested in anything. She even spoke lukewarmly
of Farm Street.
I pity her intensely. She is thin, thirty, colourless,
bosomless. I should say she was passionless--a predestined
spinster. She has never drunk hot tea or lived in the sun or
laughed a hearty laugh. I remember once, at my wit's end for
talk, telling her the old story of Theodore Hook accosting a
pompous stranger on the street with the polite request that he
might know whether he was anybody in particular.
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