And then, of course, the crisis arrived. I am sorry about this part of
the story. Of all the invasions of Aunt Emily, perhaps none were more
strongly resented by Angelina than the appropriation of the afternoon
hour in the gardens. Nurse had been an admirable escort because, as a
lady of voracious appetite for life with, at the moment, but slender
opportunities for satisfying it, she was occupied alertly with the
possible vision of any male person driven by a similar desire. Her eye
wandered; the hand to which Angelina clung was an abstract, imperceptive
hand--Angelina and Rose were free to pursue their own train of
fancy--the garden was at their service. But with Aunt Emily how
different! Aunt Emily pursued relentlessly her educational tactics. Her
thin, damp, black glove gripped Angelina's hand; her eyes (they had a
"peering" effect, as though they were always searching for something
beyond their actual vision) wandered aimlessly about the garden, looking
for educational subjects. And so up and down the paths they went,
Angelina trotting, with Rose clasped to her breast, walking just a
little faster than she conveniently could.

Miss Emily disliked the gardens, and would have greatly preferred that
nurse should have been in charge, but this consciousness of trial
inflamed her sense of merit. There came a lovely spring afternoon; the
almond tree was in full blossom; a cloud of pink against the green
hedge, clumps of daffodils rippled with little shudders of delight, even
the statues of "Sir Benjamin Bundle" and "General Sir Robinson Cleaver"
seemed to unbend a little from their stiff angularity. There were many
babies and nurses, and children laughing and crying and shouting, and a
sky of mild forget-me-not blue smiled protectingly upon them. Angelina's
eyes were fixed upon the fountain, which flashed and sparkled in the air
with a happy freedom that seemed to catch all the life of the garden