DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0179
MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 135
had ice cream, which they had about fifty-two Sundays in
the year, they met each visitor with a gleeful ‘ Ice cream!
Ice cream! Ice cream to-day!’ Or when company came
accidentally for luncheon, and they happened to have eggs
— ‘We had them about five days in the week,’ she said
plaintively — ‘they wiggled and jumped up and down in
their chairs and whispered to each other, “Eggs! eggs!
ain’t yer glad?” and gave the impression that we lived
upon bread and water.’
‘Why, I haven’t thought of these things for years,’
she laughed merrily, ‘and I am sure that no one but you
and I would remember them.’
She had just published ‘The Head of the House of
Coombe,’ and she told me about it; about the process of
writing, almost with glee, how they had to publish
‘Robin’ as a separate book.
‘They had got me started, and I couldn’t possibly stop.
I must get it all in. They say — some people say — it is
sentimental. Well, what if it is? Life is sentimental, for
those who have any sentiment in them. They used to
like sentiment, and they will like it again. This horror
of sentiment is just a phase; why cater to a passing
phase?’
A few days later, on a Sunday afternoon, she came to the
studio, where some other people were coming to tea. She
came early and stayed until the last person had left. She
sat in a high-backed chair, dressed very handsomely in
grey, and every one was delighted to go and be presented
to her. She was not in the least bored or detached that
day. ‘It’s just like old times,’ she said, ‘to be with old
friends, and the memories of the people and the things
which we both have loved.’
had ice cream, which they had about fifty-two Sundays in
the year, they met each visitor with a gleeful ‘ Ice cream!
Ice cream! Ice cream to-day!’ Or when company came
accidentally for luncheon, and they happened to have eggs
— ‘We had them about five days in the week,’ she said
plaintively — ‘they wiggled and jumped up and down in
their chairs and whispered to each other, “Eggs! eggs!
ain’t yer glad?” and gave the impression that we lived
upon bread and water.’
‘Why, I haven’t thought of these things for years,’
she laughed merrily, ‘and I am sure that no one but you
and I would remember them.’
She had just published ‘The Head of the House of
Coombe,’ and she told me about it; about the process of
writing, almost with glee, how they had to publish
‘Robin’ as a separate book.
‘They had got me started, and I couldn’t possibly stop.
I must get it all in. They say — some people say — it is
sentimental. Well, what if it is? Life is sentimental, for
those who have any sentiment in them. They used to
like sentiment, and they will like it again. This horror
of sentiment is just a phase; why cater to a passing
phase?’
A few days later, on a Sunday afternoon, she came to the
studio, where some other people were coming to tea. She
came early and stayed until the last person had left. She
sat in a high-backed chair, dressed very handsomely in
grey, and every one was delighted to go and be presented
to her. She was not in the least bored or detached that
day. ‘It’s just like old times,’ she said, ‘to be with old
friends, and the memories of the people and the things
which we both have loved.’