There is a picture in the large drawing-room that gives me infinite
pleasure. It is a portrait of my own grandmother with papa in a
white frock on her knees, and my poor Aunt Fanny beside her, a neat
little smiling girl in pink, with very long drawers. There is
something in the young mother's face that, at first sight, made my
father's smile rise clearly to my memory. I have since tried to
recall the vision, but in vain.
My father's half-brother, George Fletcher, a widower with a large
family, who lives four miles from here, came to see me this
afternoon, and I took a great dislike to him. (Did I hear you say
"Of course"?) But really, dearest, these introductions are very
painful; it is most unpleasant to have the undesirable stranger
thrust upon one in the guise of friend and protector, to find
oneself standing on a footing of inevitable familiarity with people
whose hands one had rather not touch. He kissed me, Constantia, but
he certainly will not do so again. Fortunately, I like my two old
ladies; things might be worse.
To-morrow my lawyer comes from London to speak to me on business. I
shall be glad when the interview is over, for I understand nothing
at all about business matters.
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