"It's too bad," said Francesca, "it really is. It'll spoil Christmas."
"The question is," I said, "that this House do accept my Aunt Matilda's invitation of herself to stay in it for an uncertain period at or about Christmas. I think the Ayes have it."
"The Noes have it," shouted Francesca.
"Francesca," I said, "it's no use struggling, and you know it. We've got to have Aunt Matilda, and there's an end of it."
"There isn't an end of it at all. It's only just beginning, and it'll go on getting worse and worse."
"You do not seem to realise," I said, "what the possession of an aunt like Aunt Matilda means. She is like all the aunts you've ever read about in novels, only more so. She's so true to type that you can hardly believe in her existence. To be related to her is to have a Stake in the Country and to be part of the British Constitution, which she ardently believes in without knowing anything about it. She's been a widow for fifteen years, and—"
"Poor old thing," said Francesca, "so she has."
"—for fifteen solitary years she has battled against the world, and managed her business affairs extraordinarily well; and yet she believes that women are perfect fools, and pities them from the bottom of her heart for being women."
"As far as I'm concerned," said Francesca, "she may pity all the other women if she'll only not pity me. If I have a headache she not only pities me, but despises me as a weakling utterly unfitted to manage a household. No, my dear, I can't face it. Your Aunt Matilda's too much for me."
"I admit," I said, "that she's a good deal."