put it away unopened so as to have “a really
good, jolly read” of it “afterwards.”
In a little after that she got the habit of always,
and for the same reason (she told herself) keeping
the letters till the evening. One day she gave
the slightest possible twitch of her brows at seeing
the very, very familiar handwriting. She had
had a letter only the previous day and two running
was not expected: more than that, this previous
letter had slightly vexed her by its iteration of the
longing to see her and by very many closely written
lines of various little troubles. She was a little
impatient at the idea of a further edition of it so
soon. She forgot to open it that night. She
remembered it when she was in bed; but she was in
bed then... When, next day, she read the letter
it was, again, an iteration of the longing to see
her and, again, more, much more, of the little troubles:
the residue was of the gossipy gossip that Rosalie
already had formed the habit of skipping till “afterwards.”
Altogether a vexatious letter.
After that, when the letters were frequent, it was
frequent for Rosalie to greet the sight of them with
just the swiftest, tiniest little contraction of her
brows. Nothing at all really. Meaning virtually
nothing and of itself absolutely nothing. Possessing
a significance only by contrast, as a fine shade in
silk or wool will not disclose a pronounced hue until
contrasted with another. The contrast here, to
give the thing significance, was between that swiftest,
tiniest contraction of the brows at the sight of her
mother’s letters and the eager spring to them,
the quick snatching up, and the impulsive pressing
to her lips when first those letters began to come.
Likewise answering them, that had been an impulsive
outpouring and brimming over, now was a very slightly
laboured squeezing. The pen, before, had flooded
love upon the page. Now the pen halted, paused,
and had to think of expressions that would give pleasure.
The change did not happen at a blow. If it had,
Rosalie would have noticed it. It slipped imperceptibly
from stage to stage and she did not notice it.
CHAPTER VI
There was a thing she said about men once (in the
boarding house now) and often repeated. “They’re
very fond of saying women are cats,” she once
said. “Fools! It’s men that are
the cat tribe: tame cats, tabby cats, wild cats,
Cheshire cats, tomcats and stray cats! Aren’t
they just? And look at them—tame cats
are miserable creatures, tabby cats the sloppy creatures,
wild cats ferocious creatures, Cheshire cats fool
creatures, tomcats disgusting creatures, stray cats—on
the whole the stray cats are the least objectionable,
they are bearable: at the right time and for a
short time.”
