England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction; Uncles -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
Jasmine followed her aunt upstairs, and expressed her sense of life's
disillusionment by the vigour with which she manipulated, man-handled
indeed, the neck and shoulders of the young woman, who after numerous
vain protests burst into hysterical tears and gave a month's notice.
"Funny, isn't it," said Aunt Cuckoo when they left the room, "what
little gratitude you find among the lower classes nowadays?"
"I think I did rather hurt her," said Jasmine, who was by now feeling
rather penitent.
"_I_ think you did it very well," said Aunt Cuckoo, "and _I_ am very
pleased with you. And of course her shoulders are so much harder than my
poor arm."
Aunt Cuckoo, for all her folly, had for Jasmine a certain pathos, and
during the late autumn and winter while she stayed at The Cedars she to
some extent grew accustomed to the atmosphere of cold storage which
prevailed there; she began to contemplate the slow freezing of herself
during the years to come into an Aunt Cuckoo; she preferred the notion
of a frozen self, which after all would always be liable to melt, to the
notion of a withered self like Cousin Edith's, which would indubitably
never bourgeon again. She did sometimes lunch with the Hector Grants at
Harley Street, and she found them more insufferable every time she went
there. Aunt Cuckoo could not help feeling gratified by this, because for
many years now she had been jealous of Lady Grant.
"Of course I should not like to appear as if I was criticizing her," she
would say to Jasmine. "But I understand what you mean about Lettice and
Pamela, and I can't help feeling that they have been spoilt. It's the
same with cats," she murmured, in a vague effort to elucidate the moral
atmosphere.
When Aunt Cuckoo talked like this, Jasmine began to wonder if she could
confide in her about Harry Vibart; but when she had to frame the words,
her account of the affair began to seem so pretentious and exaggerated
that she could not bring herself to the point, would blush in
embarrassment, and hide her confusion by an energetic combing of
Mustapha.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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