"I should be the last, the very last, to reflect upon my mother's sister in general conversation; but Doctor Stedman being our family physician as well as our lifelong friend, and Cousin Homer one of the family, I may without impropriety, I trust, dwell on a point which distresses me in our venerable relation. Aunt Marcia is—I grieve to use a harsh expression—frivolous."
Mr. Homer Hollopeter, responding to Miss Phœbe's glance, cleared his throat and straightened his long back. He was a little gentleman, and most of what height he had was from the waist upward; his general aspect was one of waviness. His hair was long and wavy; so was his nose, and his throat, and his shirt-collar. In his youth some one had told him that he resembled Keats. This utterance, taken with the name bestowed on him by an ambitious mother with literary tastes, had colored his whole life. He was assistant in the post-office, and lived largely on the imaginary romance of the letters which passed through his hands; he also played the flute, wrote verses, and admired his cousin Phœbe.
"I have often thought it a pity," said Mr. Homer, "that Cousin Marcia should not apply herself more to literary pursuits."
"I don't know what you mean by literary pursuits, Homer," said Doctor Stedman, rather gruffly. "I found her the other day reading Johnson's Dictionary by candlelight, without glasses. I thought that was doing pretty well for ninety-one."
"I—a—was thinking more about other branches of literature," Mr. Homer admitted. "The Muse, James, the Muse! Cousin Marcia takes little interest in poetry. If she could sprinkle the—a—pathway to the tomb with blossoms of poesy, it would be"—he waved his hands gently abroad—"smoother; less rough; more devoid of irregularities."
"Cousin Homer, could you find it convenient not to rock?" asked Miss Phœbe, with stately courtesy.
"Certainly, Cousin Phœbe. I beg your pardon."
It was one of Miss Phœbe's crosses that Mr. Homer would always sit in this particular chair, and would rock; the more so that when not engaged in conversation he was apt to open and shut his mouth in unison with the motion of the rockers. Miss Phœbe disapproved of rocking-chairs, and would gladly have banished this one, had it not belonged to her mother.
"I have occasionally offered to read to Cousin Marcia," Mr. Homer continued, "from the works of Keats and—other bards; but she has uniformly received the suggestion in a spirit of—mockery; of—derision; of—contumely. The last time I mentioned it, she exclaimed 'Cat's foot!' The expression struck me, I confess, as—strange; as—singular; as—extraordinary."
"It is an old-fashioned expression, Cousin Homer," Miss Vesta put in, gently. "I have heard our Grandmother Darracott use it, Sister Phœbe."