ed. Indeed this was a subject
that lasted her hundreds of morning walks round Richmond Park, and
blotted out the trees and the people and the deer. Why did they do the
things they did, and what did they feel, and what was it all about?
Again she heard Aunt Lucy talking to Aunt Eleanor. She had been that
morning to take up the character of a servant, "And, of course, at
half-past ten in the morning one expects to find the housemaid brushing
the stairs." How odd! How unspeakably odd! But she could not explain to
herself why suddenly as her aunt spoke the whole system in which they
lived had appeared before her eyes as something quite unfamiliar and
inexplicable, and themselves as chairs or umbrellas dropped about
here and there without any reason. She could only say with her slight
stammer, "Are you f-f-fond of Aunt Eleanor, Aunt Lucy?" to which her
aunt replied, with her nervous hen-like twitter of a laugh, "My dear
child, what questions you do ask!"

"How fond? Very fond!" Rachel pursued.

"I can't say I've ever thought 'how,'" said Miss Vinrace. "If one cares
one doesn't think 'how,' Rachel," which was aimed at the niece who had
never yet "come" to her aunts as cordially as they wished.

"But you know I care for you, don't you, dear, because you're your
mother's daughter, if for no other reason, and there _are_ plenty of
other reasons"--and she leant over and kissed her with some emotion, and
the argument was spilt irretrievably about the place like a bucket of
milk.

By these means Rachel reached that stage in thinking, if thinking it can
be called, when the eyes are intent upon a ball or a knob and the lips
cease to move. Her efforts to come to an understanding had only hurt
her aunt's feelings, and the conclusion must be that it is better not
to try. To feel anything strongly was to create an abyss between oneself
and others who feel strongly perhaps but differently. It was far better
to play the piano and forget all the rest. The conclusion was very
welcome. Let these odd men and women--her aunts, the Hunts, Ridley,
Helen, Mr. Pepper, and the rest--be symbols,--featureless but dignified,
symbols of age, of youth, of motherhood, of learning, and beautiful
often as people upon the stage are beautiful. It appeared that nobody
ever said a thing they meant, or ever talked of a feeling they felt, but
that was what music was for. Reality dwelling in what one saw and felt,
but did not talk about, one could accept a sys