Aunt Lavvy came next. A long grey face. Black bands of hair parted on her broad forehead. Black eyebrows; blue eyes that stuck out wide, that didn't point at you. A grey bonnet, a grey dress, a little white shawl with a narrow fringe, drooping. She walked slowly--slowly, as if she were still thinking of something that was not in the room, as if she came into a quiet, empty room. You thought at first she was never going to kiss you, she was so tall and her face and eyes held themselves so still. Uncle Victor. Dark and white; smaller than Papa, smaller than Aunt Lavvy; thin in his loose frock-coat. His forehead and black eyebrows were twisted above his blue, beautiful eyes. He had a small dark brown moustache and a small dark brown beard, trimmed close and shaped prettily to a point. He looked like something, like somebody; like Dank when he was mournful, like Dank's dog, Tibby, when he hid from Papa. He said, "Well, Caroline. Well, Emilius." Aunt Charlotte gave out sharp cries of "Dear!" and "Darling!" and smothered them against your face in a sort of moan. When she came to Roddy she put up her hands. "Roddy--yellow hair. No. No. What have you done with the blue eyes and black hair, Emilius? That comes of letting your beard grow so long." Then they all went into the dining-room. It was like a birthday. There was to be real blancmange, and preserved ginger, and you drank raspberry vinegar out of the silver christening cups the aunts and uncles gave you when you were born. Uncle Victor had given Mary hers. She held it up and read her own name on it. MARY VICTORIA OLIVIER 1863. They were all telling their names. Mary took them up and chanted them: "Mark Emilius Olivier; Daniel Olivier; Rodney Olivier; Victor Justus Olivier; Lavinia Mary Olivier; Charlotte Louisa Olivier." She liked the sound of them. She sat between Uncle Victor and Aunt Lavvy. Roddy was squeezed into the corner between Mamma and Mark. Aunt Charlotte sat opposite her between Mark and Daniel. She _had_ to look at Aunt Charlotte's face. There were faint grey smears on it as if somebody had scribbled all over it with pencil. A remarkable conversation. "Aunt Lavvy! Aunt Lavvy! Have you brought your Opinions?" "No, my dear, they were not invited. So I left them at home." "I'm glad to hear it," Papa said. "Will you bring them next time?" "No. Not next time, nor any other time," Aunt Lavvy said, looking straight at Papa. "Did you shut them up in the stair cupboard?" "No, but I may have to some day." "Then," Mary said, "if there are any little ones, may I have one?" "May she, Emilius?" "Certainly not," Papa said. "She's got too many little opinions of her own." "What do you know about opinions?" Uncle Victor said. Mary was excited and happy. She had never been allowed to talk so much. She tried to eat her roast chicken in a business-like, grown-up manner, while she talked.