He did not dislike it, and used no
diplomacy himself; he found his aunt's mind shrewd, fresh,
unaffected, and at the same time inspiring. She habitually spoke
with a touch of irony--not bitter irony, but the irony that is at
once a compliment and a sign of affection, such as Socrates used to
the handsome boys that came about him. She was not in the smallest
degree cynical, but she was very decidedly humorous. Howard thought
that she did people even more than justice, while she was frankly
delighted if they also provided her with amusement. She held
nothing inconveniently sacred, and Howard admired the fine balance
of interest and detachment which she showed, her delight in life,
her high faith in something large, eternal, and advancing. Her
health was evidently very frail, but she made light of it--it was
almost the only thing she did not seem to find interesting. How
could this clever, vivacious woman, Howard asked himself, retain
this wonderful freshness and sweetness of mind in such solitude and
dulness of life? He could imagine her the centre of a salon--she
had all the gifts of a saloniste, the power of keeping a talk in
hand, of giving her entire thought to her neighbour, and yet
holding the whole group in view. Solitary, frail, secluded as she
was, she was like an unrusted sword, and lavished her wit and her
affection on all alike, callers, villagers, servants; and yet he
never saw her tired or depressed.
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