Honourable Intentions

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Aunt Maud’s house in Cheltenham was really quite large, in a rambling way; it just seemed too small for the possessions she and her late husband had accumulated. Every small table was draped with a fringed embroidered cloth and then jammed with framed photographs, bowls of pot-pourri, vases and little silver knick-knacks – each with a very dull history. Every wall was coated with elaborate frames, in which were incompetent landscapes. Each door had a heavy velvet curtain with a brass rail on it, to keep out draughts, and every window curtain was as elaborately draped as a rococo Madonna. It would have been a bad place for kittens, drunks and children, if one could conceive of Aunt Maud allowing such creatures in.

It smelt of dust and old ladies, the other of whom was Ranklin’s mother.

“You still haven’t married, Matthew,” Aunt Maud told him. “I imagine you want your family name to continue.” Her tone made it clear that she couldn’t imagine why. “You’re not getting any younger.”

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