It was understood in the family, that while Lydia enjoyed life,
Susan only endured it. All the same she was a good deal spoilt. She
breakfasted in bed, which Mrs. Penfold never thought of doing; Lydia
mended her stockings, and renewed her strings and buttons; while Mrs.
Penfold spent twice the time and money on Susan's wardrobe that she did
on Lydia's. There was no reason whatever for any of these indulgences;
but when three women live together, one of them has only to sit still, to
make the others her slaves. Mrs. Penfold found her reward in the belief
that Susan was a genius and would some day astonish the world; Lydia had
no such illusion; and yet it would have given her a shock to see Susan
mending her own stockings.
Susan approached her now languidly, her hand to her brow. Lydia looked at
her severely.
"I suppose you have got a headache?"
"A little."
"That's because you will go and write poetry directly after lunch. Why it
would even give _me_ a headache!"
"I had an idea," said Susan plaintively.
"What does that matter? Ideas'll keep. You have just to make a note of
them--put salt on their tails--and then go and take a walk. Indigestion,
my dear--which is the plain English for your headache--is very bad for
ideas. What have you been doing to your collar?"
And Lydia took hold of her sister, straightening her collar, pinning up
her hair, and generally putting her to rights. When the operation was
over, she gave a little pat to Susan's cheek and kissed her.
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