The last straw was hearing my Aunt Angela telling my mother, in the cab
coming home, that it was pretty to see how the child had enjoyed
herself.
Now I wonder how Annabel would have dealt with Gilbert? Her childhood is
not my childhood. I read _Pickwick_ at five, while Annabel is satisfied
with _Teddy Tail_: that fancy-dress ball was my first party, while
Annabel goes to dances twice a week. Annabel’s emotions could never have
been in the least like mine. And yet, five years old in the
eighteen-nineties is nearer five years old in the nineteen-twenties than
five years old will ever be to a contemporary aunt. If I ask my nice
Philip Collins to tea—such a handsome boy!—such good manners!—how am I
to be certain that I am not inflicting a Gilbert upon Annabel? On the
other hand, Annabel might have liked Gilbert. He was a popular person
that evening: and Annabel has never kept moles.
Annabel does not think me young. She asked me yesterday if I had ever
spoken to Queen Elizabeth; but she likes to hear what I did in that
Palæolithic age when I was little. I will tell her about Gilbert when I
tuck her up to-night, and see what she says.