In reality, I think what some said was true: it was simply
that she was emotional, as old maids are apt to be. She once said
that many women have the nun's instinct largely developed,
and sigh for the peace of the cloister.

She seemed to be very fond of artists. She had the queerest tastes,
and had, or had had when she was young, one or two friends who, I believe,
claimed to be something of that kind; she used to talk about them
to old Blinky. But it seemed to us from what she said that artists
never did any work; just spent their time lounging around, doing nothing,
and daubing paint on their canvas with brushes like a painter,
or chiselling and chopping rocks like a mason. One of these friends of hers
was a young man from Norfolk who had made a good many things.
He was killed or died in the war; so he had not been quite ruined;
was worth something anyhow as a soldier. One of his things was a Psyche,
and Cousin Fanny used to talk a good deal about it; she said it was fine,
was a work of genius. She had even written some verses about it.
She repeated them to me once, and I wrote them down. Here they are:

To Galt's Psyche.

Well art thou called the soul;
For as I gaze on thee,
My spirit, past control,
Springs up in ecstasy.

Thou canst not be dead stone;
For o'er thy lovely face,
Softer than music's tone,
I see the spirit's grace.