Aunt Susan, who always looked like a kind, little, animated Dresden shepherdess, flushed a little.
“And so you had a nice day?” she said. “And no upsets? Martin is so reckless on water. Dear Helen, is it quite wise to take off your hat? It may turn suddenly chilly.”
Helen laughed, and threw it on the grass.
“No; no upsets, and quite wise, Aunt Susan. But a nice day? There was everything to make it nice externally; but one’s nice days are made inside one, I think. And just now my machine for making nice days creaks and groans; it is out of order.”
Aunt Susan, though far too shy to take the initiative, was longing for the least thing that could be considered an introduction of this topic.
“Do you know, dear, I lay awake half the night thinking of you and your trouble,” she said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” cried Helen. “I ought not to have told you so late last night. Selfish little pig I am!”
Aunt Susan patted her hand gently.
“Dear, it was delicious,” she said, “lying awake and thinking about you. I am afraid I actually enjoyed it. Not that I am not very, very sorry for you and your father and Lord Yorkshire; but when I said it was delicious, I meant it was so real, so alive, so very interesting. I don’t think I have lain awake more than a few minutes in the last couple of years, and that was when your uncle had the influenza. And then it was only his cough that kept me awake; I was not anxious, for he had it very slightly. Now, if you do not mind talking about it, do tell me more. You told me just the facts. Tell me what you feel. How does it touch,—I am so stupid at saying things,—not what you will do only, your actions, but yourself?”
The question implied a perception with which Helen had not credited her aunt.