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knees. She also had a husband; a gruff man who said 'Damn.5 He seemed to keep in one frightening room, and he had a beard and a very red face and he didn't like children. Besides the greataunts there were two ordinary-sized ones who, I gathered, were my father's sisters, and there was also an assortment of uncles, but only one of them, Uncle Wheldon, lived in the house and he was its support and mainstay. He was a very great friend and he loved me with all his big heart. Between him and grandmama, and sweet Aunt Maud, I had a gloriously happy time.
Aunt Maud was a very kind and gentle lady, much given to high-church religious observances and to painting on china, at which she worked professionally and very skilfully. She almost always painted saints for the decoration of altar-panels. Once she painted me — a peculiar aberration, for by no stretch of imagery could I possibly be included in the category. But I loved to watch her at work when I went to stay with grandmama. China has to be 'baked' after painting. The colours — powder in little glass tubes, I remember — are often quite different from what they will be when they are baked, and, unless I have forgotten, flesh tint was bright blue to start with, which must have made painting very difficult. It certainly made the saints look peculiar. It intrigued me immensely to see how they changed after cooking — and even a sinner might be improved that way!
This dear old house, with all the happy people in it, was a great joy to me whenever I could have the opportunity to go there. The only drawback was the black beetles. There were thousands of them in the basement kitchen, and if you went down there with a candle at night you could hear the gentle scrabble of their feet as they hurried away from the light. I was terrified of black beetles: I am still.
But the time came at the end of my first visit, when my mother decided she must have me at home. The news was broken to me as gently as possible but black despair curled round my heart. They carried me home weeping. It must have been a wretched disappointment for my parents, although it was natural enough. I had scarcely seen them since my babyhood: grandmama's house meant everything of home to me. I remember vaguely how miserably I blubbered and I think there was in me a flickering of regret that I could not put up a little show of filial decency. My mother's sorrow was very genuine — I remember that — and I am sorry that I was such a little beast.
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