She walked slowly--slowly, as if she were still thinking of something
that was not in the room, as if she came into a quiet, empty room.

You thought at first she was never going to kiss you, she was so tall and
her face and eyes held themselves so still.

Uncle Victor. Dark and white; smaller than Papa, smaller than Aunt Lavvy;
thin in his loose frock-coat. His forehead and black eyebrows were
twisted above his blue, beautiful eyes. He had a small dark brown
moustache and a small dark brown beard, trimmed close and shaped prettily
to a point. He looked like something, like somebody; like Dank when he
was mournful, like Dank's dog, Tibby, when he hid from Papa. He said,
"Well, Caroline. Well, Emilius."

Aunt Charlotte gave out sharp cries of "Dear!" and "Darling!" and
smothered them against your face in a sort of moan.

When she came to Roddy she put up her hands.

"Roddy--yellow hair. No. No. What have you done with the blue eyes and
black hair, Emilius? That comes of letting your beard grow so long."

Then they all went into the dining-room.

It was like a birthday. There was to be real blancmange, and preserved
ginger, and you drank raspberry vinegar out of the silver christening
cups the aunts and uncles gave you when you were born. Uncle Victor had
given Mary hers. She held it up and read her own name on it.

MARY VICTORIA OLIVIER