"We are discarding the fallacy nowadays that Love is blind," said Aunt B. inconsequently. "While young and clear-eyed it has excellent sight. Later, it takes to dark-glasses of its own choice, and so gives an impression of sightlessness. Ferlie knows you better now than she ever will know you, Edward ... or, no, that's not the name—What is it, Ferlie?"
"It's 'Cyprian,'" announced Ferlie from a bath of cream and jam, "and you're frightening him to death, Aunt B."
"Can't help that. He's rather embarrassing me by being so palpably embarrassed. Don't blink like that, Cyprian. Are you young enough to join Ferlie in those poisonous cakes or would you prefer a scone?"
Cyprian coldly selected an éclair.
"Happy man!" said Aunt B., twinkling all over, "The sweets of life are tasteless against my false teeth. A watercress sandwich, now..."
She was a startling contrast to Cyprian's late-lamented aunts, influencing the life of Little Puddington, even under their heavy slabs of marble, by the trail of Guilds, Club-rooms, and Organ endowments left behind them. And Martha and Mary would have said, with one accord, that a woman's glory was her hair. A wig, or at least, a discreet frame, if not an actual transformation, would be preferable to that shameless modern shingling.
Brillianna Trefusis was too obviously one of those new elderly women who no longer found the Presence on the altar of wood and stone, and as obviously was Ferlie in love with her.
She caused Cyprian to leap finally in his chair at this stage of his conclusions. Intercepting his interrogative glance at Ferlie, exceeding the Safety First limit as to ice-cream, "You'll like me when you come to know me better," Aunt B. assured him.