Priscilla, returning without her father at half past six o’clock, found Frank sitting alone under the lime tree. He was in a singularly chastened mood and inclined to be companionable and friendly, even with a girl of no more than fifteen years old.
“I say, Priscilla,” he said, “is that old aunt of yours quite mad?”
There was something in the way he expressed himself which delighted Priscilla. He had reverted to the phraseology of an undignified schoolboy of the lower fifth. The veneer of grown manhood, even the polish of a prefect, had, as it were, peeled off him during the afternoon.
“Not at all,” said Priscilla. “She’s frightfully clever, what’s called intellectual. You know the sort of thing. How’s your ankle?”
“She says it isn’t sprained. But, blow it all, it’s swelled the size of the calf of your leg.”
He did not mean Priscilla’s leg particularly; but with a slight lift of an already short skirt she surveyed her own calf curiously. She wanted to know exactly how thick Frank’s injured ankle was.
“Then she didn’t cure it?”
“Cure it!” said Frank, “I should think not. She simply kept on telling me I only thought it was sprained. I never heard such rot talked in all my life. How do you stand it at all?”
“That’s nothing,” said Priscilla. “We’re quite glad she’s taken to Christian Science; though she did nearly kill poor father. Before that she was all for teetotallity—that’s not quite the right word, but you know the thing I mean, drinking nothing but lemonade, either homemade or the kind that fizzes. I didn’t mind that a bit for I like lemonade, both sorts, but father simply hated it. He told me he’d rather go up to that nursing home in Dublin every time he feels ill than live through another six months on lemonade. Before that she was frightfully keen on a thing called uric acid. Do you know what that is, Cousin Frank?” “No,” he said, “I don’t. How did it take her?” “She wouldn’t give us anything to eat,” said Priscilla, “except queer sort of mashes which she said were made of nuts and biscuits and things. I got quite thin and as weak as a cat.” “I wonder you stuck it out.” “Oh, it didn’t last long. None of them do, you know. That’s our great consolation; though we rather hope the Christian Science will on account of its doing us no particular harm. She doesn’t mind what we eat or drink, which is a great comfort. She can’t you know, according to her principles, because when there’s no such thing as being sick it can’t matter how much whipped cream or anything of that sort you eat just before you go to bed at night. She didn’t like it a bit when I got up on Christmas night and foraged out nearly a quarter of a cold plum pudding. She was just going up to bed and she caught me. She wanted awfully to stop me eating it, but she couldn’t without giving the whole show away, so I ate it before her very eyes. That’s the beauty of Christian Science.” “But I say, Priscilla, weren’t you sick?” “Not a bit. When Father heard about it next morning he said he thought there must be something in Aunt Juliet’s theory after all. He has stuck to that ever since, though he says it doesn’t apply to influenza. She had a great idea about fresh air one time, and got up a carpenter to take the window frames, windows and all, clean out of my room. I used to have to borrow hairpins from Rose—she’s the under housemaid and a great friend of mine—so as to fasten the bedclothes on to the mattress. Otherwise they blew away during the night, while I was asleep. That was one of the worst times we ever had, though I don’t think Father minded it so much. He used to go out and smoke in the harness room. But I hated it worse than anything except the uric acid. You never knew where your clothes would be in the morning if it was the least stormy, and my hair used to blow into soup and tea and things, which made it frightfully sticky.”
“Do you think,” said Frank, “that she’ll leave me alone now? Or will she want to have another go at me to-morrow?”