“Good-bye! I am very sorry you are feeling so ill; shall I stay with you?” she said.
“Mon Dieu! No! The dear aunt would certainly be bored without you; you must go at once. Bonne chance. And you will come over and see me?”
“Yes,” said Jocelyn. There was a troubled look on her face, as she turned it to the other before passing through the window.
Outside, Mrs. Travis’s figure spread, straight and full, in a cool, grey silk gown, under a black sunshade.
She covered a good deal of ground. She had on a very smart bonnet, and large, easy boots; the keynote of her personality was struck in the words, “material comfort.” It was an unconscious profession with her to pursue it, but she would have been the last to admit it. She was fifty, with soft, well-curled fair hair going grey, and hazel-green eyes; she had a good deal of colour. She was not a tall woman, but she impressed one as such, there was so much dignity about her—the dignity of the old Puritan stock—the dignity of obstinacy. She had no principle, or, rather, she had the principles of temporary convenience, and a lingering, superstitious remnant of a Puritan education, which compelled her against her desires to go to church on Sundays. She was fond of gambling; gambled badly and superstitiously, with a keen enjoyment; objected to people believing that she did so at all; suspected the “bank” of knowing a little too much when she lost; bore her losses, as she bore physical pain, with the stoicism of early education; expected the same stoicism, multiplied, in her niece. Without knowing it, she was a perfect mistress of the art of avoiding wrinkles.
If you scratch a Russian you come to a Tartar, if you scratch a human being you come to an animal; only in some cases you scratch more, in others less. In Mrs. Travis’s case you scratched less. She suggested nothing so much as a large Persian cat.
With her bright, quickly-moving, greenish eyes she observed many things, conveying them as far as the shell which covered her reasoning powers—if she had any. She had much instinct, no logic.
She was frequently heard to say to her niece, “You ought to think of other people, my dear.” And she did so herself—just so far as it suited her own convenience. She only said it to her niece in the impunity of close relationship; in other cases she became the sublime martyr in a smooth sulk. For the rest, she was entirely devoid of “inwardness,” was hospitable, and a widow with no children, loved shopping and dress, collected silver, and did it all well and economically. She did not talk much, but smiled a great deal, a pleasant smile; when she was agitated she puffed her lips.
She puffed them now, saying to Jocelyn—
“We shall lose our train, my dear, and we ought to play before dinner, you know, I’m never so lucky after.” She linked her arm in the girl’s, and walked down the terrace steps, Giles following in a feeble endeavour to reconcile her bonnet with her boots. He was given to dissection, and Mrs. Travis was tough under the knife.