She had
said that all Henrietta's aunts were witches, and for the first time
the girl agreed. In the other room, brilliantly lighted, Caroline and
Sophia were bending somewhat greedily over a mass of silks and satins
and laces, their cheeks flushed round the dabs of rouge, their fingers
active yet inept, fumbling in what might have been a brew for the
working of spells; and here, straight as a tree, Aunt Rose looked into
the fire as though she could see the future in its red heart, but her
voice, very clear, had a reassuring quality. It was not, Henrietta
thought, a witch's voice. Witches mumbled and screeched, and Aunt Rose
spoke like water falling from a height.
'Come in, Henrietta. Is the consultation over?'
'It has hardly begun. What a lot of clothes they have, and boxes of
lace, boxes! I think you will have to decide for them. And Aunt
Caroline snubs Aunt Sophia, all the time.'
'Did they send you to fetch me?'
'Yes, but we needn't go back yet, need we? Aunt Caroline wants to wear
her emeralds, but she says they will look vulgar with pink satin.
There's some lovely grey stuff like a cobweb. She says it was in her
mother's trousseau and I think she ought to wear that, but she says
she is going to keep it until she's old!'
'Then she'll never wear it. She will never make such an admission.'
'And she won't let Aunt Sophia have it because she says it would make
her look like a dusty broom. And it would, you know! She's really very
funny sometimes.
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