Upon an afternoon, Aunt Aggie hearing that Henry wished to change a novel at Mudie’s Library (that very novel that he had been reading on the day of Philip’s arrival) offered to take it for him. This was at luncheon, and she felt, because she liked her food and barley-water, a sudden impulse towards the Ideal Unselfishness. She made her offer, and then reflected that it would be very troublesome to go so far as Oxford Street; she therefore allowed Katherine to accept the mission, retaining at the same time her own nobility. She became quite angry: “Of course,” she said, “you consider me too old to do anything—to sit in a corner and sew is all I’m good for—well, well—you’ll be old yourself one day, Katherine, my dear. I should have liked to have helped Henry.... However ...”
She was conscious, during the afternoon, of some injustice; she had been treated badly. At dinner that night Rocket forgot the footstool that was essential to her comfort; she was compelled at last to ask him for it. He had never forgotten it before; they all thought her an old woman who didn’t matter; no one troubled now about her—well, they should see....
Great Aunt Sarah was, as often happened to her, rheumatic but Spartan in bed. The ladies, when they left the dining-room and closed around the drawing-room fire, were Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, Katherine and Millie. Happy and comfortable enough they looked, with the shadowed dusky room behind them and the blaze in front of them. In the world outside it was a night of intense frost: here they were reflected in the Mirror, Mrs. Trenchard’s large gold locket (Henry as a baby inside it), Aggie’s plump neck and black silk dress, Aunt Betty’s darting, sparkling eyes, Millie’s lovely shoulders, Katherine’s rather dumpy ones—there they all were, right inside the Mirror, with a reflected fire to make them cosy and the walls ever so thick and old. The freezing night could not touch them.
“Rocket’s getting very old and careless,” said Aggie.
Everyone had known that Aunt Aggie was out of temper this evening, and everyone, therefore, was prepared for a tiresome hour or two. Rocket was a great favourite; Mrs. Trenchard, her arms folded across her bosom, her face the picture of placid content, said:
“Oh, Aggie, do you think so?... I don’t.”
“No, of course, you don’t, Harriet,” answered her sister sharply. “He takes care with you. Of course he does. But if you considered your sister sometimes—”
“My dear Aggie!” Mrs. Trenchard, as she spoke, bent forward and very quietly picked up a bright green silk thread from the carpet.
“Oh, I’m not complaining! That’s a thing I don’t believe in! After all, if you think Rocket’s perfection I’ve no more to say. I want others to be comfortable—for myself I care nothing. It is for the rest of the family.”
“We’re quite comfortable, Aunt Aggie, thank you,” said Millie laughing.