My patience began to evaporate.
"There are some things, Aunt Isobel, you know, which can't be exactly squeezed into No and Yes. But if you don't want to be bothered I won't say anything, or I'll say yes or no, which ever you like."
And I kicked the shovel. (My aunt had shoved the poker with her slipper.) She drew her foot back and spoke very gently:
"I beg your pardon, my dear. Please say what you were going to say, and in your own way."
There is no doubt that good-humour—like bad—is infectious. I drew nearer to Aunt Isobel, and fingered the sleeve of her dress caressingly.
"You know, dear Aunt Isobel, that I should never think of saying to the Rector what I want to say to you. And I don't mean that I don't agree to whatever he tells us about right and wrong, but still I think if one can be quite convinced in the depths of one's own head, too, it's a good thing, as well as knowing that he must be right."
"Certainly," said Aunt Isobel.
"To begin with, I don't want you to think me any better than I am. When we were very very little, Philip and I used to spit at each other, and pull each other's hair out. I do not do nasty or unladylike things now when I am angry, but, Aunt Isobel, my 'besetting sin' is not conquered, it's only civilized."
"I quite agree with you," said Aunt Isobel; which rather annoyed me. I gulped this down, however, and went on:
"The sin of ill-temper, if it is a sin," I began. I paused, expecting an outburst, but Aunt Isobel sat quite composedly, and fingered her eyelashes.