An aristocrat to the
finger-tips, she could not accept the change of circumstances;
distress had soured her; the transplanting hastened her decline; there
was no sweetness left in her. She turned her heart steadily against
the world.
The ostensible cause of this hiding herself away with her sorrow and
disappointment was the presence of Miss Waghorn, with whom she
disagreed, and even quarrelled, from morning till night. They formed a
storm-centre that moved from salon to dining-room, and they squabbled
acutely about everything--the weather, the heating, the opening or
shutting of windows, the details of the food, the arrangement of the
furniture, even the character of the cat. Miss Waghorn loved. The
bickerings were incessant. They only had to meet for hot disagreement
to break out. Mrs. Plume, already bent with age, would strike the
floor with the ebony stick she always carried, and glare at the erect,
defiant spinster--'That horrud, dirrty cat; its always in the room!'
Then Miss Waghorn: 'It's a very nice cat, Madame'--she always called
her Madame--'and when _I_ was a young girl I was taught to be kind to
animals.'--'The drawing-room is _not_ the place for animals,' came the
pricking answer. And then the scuffle began in earnest.
Miss Waghorn, owing to her want of memory, forgot the squabble five
minutes afterwards, and even forgot that she knew her antagonist at
all.
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