Aunt Charlotte came in first with a tight, dancing run. You knew her by
the long black curls on her shoulders. She was smiling as she smiled in
the album. She bent her head as she bent it in the album, and her eyes
looked up close under her black eyebrows and pointed at you.
Pretty--pretty blue eyes, and something frightening that made you look at
them. And something queer about her narrow jaw. It thrust itself forward,
jerking up her smile.
No black lace shawl and no crinoline. Aunt Charlotte wore a blue and
black striped satin dress, bunched up behind, and a little hat perched on
the top of her chignon and tied underneath it with blue ribbons.
She had got in and was kissing everybody while Aunt Lavvy and Uncle
Victor were fumbling with the hat stand in the hall.
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.
"I've read about them," she said. "They are dear little animals with long
furry tails, much bigger than Sarah's tail, and they climb up trees."
"Oh, they climb up trees, do they?" Uncle Victor was very polite and
attentive.
"Yes. There's their picture in Bank's Natural History Book. Next to the
Ornythrincus or Duck-billed Plat-i-pus. If they came into the house Mamma
would be frightened. But I would not be frightened. I should stroke
them."
"Do you think," Uncle Victor said, still politely, "you _quite_ know what
you mean?"
"_I_ know," Daniel said, "she means opossums."
"Yes," Mary said. "Opossums."
"What _are_ opinions?"
"Opinions," Papa said, "are things that people put in other people's
heads. Nasty, dangerous things, opinions."