I have (said Reginald) an aunt who worries. She's not really
an aunt--a sort of amateur one, and they aren't really
worries. She is a social success, and has no domestic
tragedies worth speaking of, so she adopts any decorative
sorrows that are going, myself included. In that way she's
the antithesis, or whatever you call it, to those sweet,
uncomplaining women one knows who have seen trouble, and worn
blinkers ever since. Of course, one just loves them for it,
but I must confess they make me uncomfy; they remind one so
of a duck that goes flapping about with forced cheerfulness
long after its head's been cut off. Ducks have NO repose.
Now, my aunt has a shade of hair that suits her, and a cook
who quarrels with the other servants, which is always a
hopeful sign, and a conscience that's absentee for about
eleven months of the year, and only turns up at Lent to annoy
her husband's people, who are considerably Lower than the
angels, so to speak: with all these natural advantages--she
says her particular tint of bronze is a natural advantage,
and there can be no two opinions as to the advantage--of
course she has to send out for her afflictions, like those
restaurants where they haven't got a licence. The system has
this advantage, that you can fit your unhappinesses in with
your other engagements, whereas real worries have a way of
arriving at meal-times, and when you're dressing, or other
solemn moments. I knew a canary once that had been trying
for months and years to hatch out a family, and everyone
looked upon it as a blameless infatuation, like the sale of