Fame! yes! this invertebrate creature, whose intellect was of the smallest, had actually written a book of poems after the style of L.E.L., in which she compared herself to "a withered leaf on the tree of life." She had several times inflicted these weak rhymes, in which mountain rhymed to fountain, and dove to love, on Miss Jelly, but that stout old dame snorted disdainfully at her companion's poetical fancies, whereupon Minnie retired with her manuscript, sat in the twilight, and wished herself dead.
When Eustace visited his aunt, Minnie always attacked him about the publication of her poems, and Eustace, the cynical, the bitter, the scornful, actually read her poor little rhymes and promised to see what he could do with them, which proved that a good deal of his cynicism was only skin deep. Perhaps he was forced into this promise by Aunt Jelly, who thought if Minnie could only get her drivel published she would perhaps hold her tongue for the rest of her life, but this hope seemed too good to be realised.
Miss Pelch had a thin drooping figure, a pensive face with pale skin, pale eyebrows, pale eyes, pale lips, in fact she was all pallid, and wore her thin brown hair in girlish curls, with two drooping over her ears after the style of those called "kiss-me-quicks." She generally wore an ancient black silk dress, with lace cuffs and lace collar fastened by a large brooch containing the portrait (done in oil by a village artist) of her late father.
Seated at the window, in the dull light of an October day, Miss Fetch, having been worsted in an encounter with Aunt Jelly over the question of reading one of her effusions, was drooping like a withered flower over the manuscript, and could hardly read her own scratchy writing for tears.
Aunt Jelly was is her usual place, sitting bolt upright, with her woolly-haired poodle, Coriolanus, at her feet, and no sound disturbed the quiet save an occasional patter of Minnie's tears, or the vicious clicking of Aunt Jelly's needles. On the table in the centre of the room were decanters of port and sherry and a plate of cake, for Miss Corbin was expecting her nephew, Guy, and his wife, to call on her that afternoon, the young couple having just arrived from the Continent, and always gave her visitors wine in preference to tea, which she characterised tersely as "wash."
Miss Corbin opened her mouth once or twice to make a remark, but, casting an angry glance at the tearful Minnie, shut it again without uttering a sound, and knitted with redoubled fury. At last her stoicism could hold out no longer, and she called out in her strong, clear voice:
"For Heaven's sake, Minnie, stop crying. There's plenty of rain outside, without you bringing it into the house."
"Very well, Miss Jelly," said Minnie meekly, and drying her eyes, she slipped her poem into her pocket and sat with folded hands, looking as if she carried the weight of the world on her round shoulders.
Aunt Jelly looked at her keenly for a moment, and then issued another command.
"Come here, child."