"Yes, quite so," she breathed. "Any one who knows you well must agree
that whatever you are, or do, or find, nowadays, is certainly 'thanks
to your wife.'"
Her brother flashed a furious look at her, and was about to speak,
but catching sight of Sylvia's troubled little face turned to him
anxiously, gave only an impatient shake to his ruddy head--now graying
slightly. A little later he said: "Oh, we don't speak the same
language any more, Victoria. I couldn't make you understand--you don't
know--how should you? You can't conceive how, when one is really
_living_, nothing of all that matters. What does architecture matter,
for instance?"
"Some of it matters very little indeed," concurred his sister blandly.
This stirred him to an ungracious laugh. "As for keeping up only human
ties, isn't a fortnight once every five years rather slim rations?"
"Ah, there are difficulties--the Masonic Building--" murmured Aunt
Victoria, apparently at random. But then, it seemed to Sylvia that
they were always speaking at random. For all she could see, neither of
them ever answered what the other had said.
The best times were when she and Aunt Victoria were all alone
together--or with only the silent, swift-fingered, Pauline in
attendance during the wonderful processes of dressing or undressing
her mistress. These occasions seemed to please Aunt Victoria best
also.
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