I used not to care at all for Mr. Romilly. He has such a way of going on talk, talk, talk, and expecting everybody to listen meekly without a word in answer. Well, I am afraid I don't care for him much even now, for the matter of that; though of course I ought, because he is so good. I wonder if people ever are loved only for their goodness, and for nothing else.
Mother says she never knew a more truly good and generous man than Mr. Romilly. If only he had not such funny little ways, and were not so desperately careful of himself! I like a dashing soldierly man, who will dare anybody and face any danger, and who can bear any sort of discomfort without grumbling—a man who will do just whatever lies before him to be done, without thinking for a moment whether he may find it a trouble or suffer for it after. And Mr. Romilly is not dashing at all. He is afraid of everything, and the very least uncomfortableness makes him doleful. It always seems to me that he ought to be tied up in cotton-wool, and put away in a drawer for safety.
Besides, I do like clever people, and I can't look up to a man who hasn't mind. And nobody could call Mr. Romilly clever. I don't believe he ever reads a book through by any chance. The most he does is to peck a little at the cover.
Oh no, Mr. Romilly is good and kind, but not the smallest atom clever, or dashing, or soldierly, or self-forgetful. I suppose he can't help it, poor man; but he would be very much nicer if he were different.
Then Mrs. Romilly, how shy she always makes me feel, even to this day. I never know what to say, when she is present. She is so tall, and she dresses so beautifully, and she seems so certain that everybody must admire her. And when she walks, she has a sort of undulating movement, exactly like the waves that go over a corn-field or the squirms that run down a snake's back.
What would Nellie say to all this? But it is only my dear private journal, and I may write what I like. One can say things to one's private journal that one could not say to anybody else—not even Mother or Nellie.
Altogether Mrs. Romilly doesn't suit me, though of course she is a most delightful person, and the most beautiful woman in Glynde—so uncle Tom says. Uncle Tom prefers Mrs. Romilly to Mr. Romilly, and Ramsay can't endure either. Ramsay declares that Mrs. Romilly worships her husband, and expects to be worshipped herself by all the rest of the world. But then Ramsay says hard things all round about almost everybody. He prides himself on liking very few people, which always seems to me so shallow.
Mrs. Romilly doesn't make many friends, I fancy. People talk of her looks, and call her "interesting" and "charming;" but they do not speak as if they loved her. She has one friend, quite a girl, living in Bath, hardly older than Nellie. So odd!
Nellie and I are great friends. She is three years older than I am, and the dearest girl I ever knew. Mother often says that Nellie's place as eldest daughter in that house must be very difficult to fill; but Nellie manages wonderfully. I suppose she is not so pretty as Maggie—at least some would say not. I like Maggie very well; only she has such a droll blundering way of doing things. I never can imagine why Mrs. Romilly is so much more fond of Maggie than of Nellie; but everybody sees it, though one could not say a word to Nellie.
The three eldest girls have spent the evening here, and we have had games and plenty of fun. To be sure I would rather have had Nellie alone, but Mother says that won't do always. Only I did wish that darling little Elfie might have come instead of Thyrza. Elfie is a perfect little witch; and I never can get on with Thyrza. She is so tall and stiff and cold; she freezes me quite up. And she never seems to think it worth her while to talk to me. Perhaps if I were not proud too, Thyrza's proud manner wouldn't make any difference, but I don't like her, certainly. Maggie is the nicest after Nellie,—if not Elfie. And Nona is a kind good-natured girl too; only there never seems to be anything in her. Mother once said that all Nona's growth had gone into her body, and all Elfie's into her mind.