Burgeon,
indeed. She had heard of dried staffs, pieces of mere dead wood,
suddenly putting forth fresh leaves, but only in legend. She was not
in legend. She knew perfectly what was due to herself. Dignity
demanded that she should have nothing to do with fresh leaves at her
age; and yet there it was--the feeling that presently, that at any
moment now, she might crop out all green.
Mrs. Fisher was upset. There were many things she disliked more
than anything else, and one was when the elderly imagined they felt
young and behaved accordingly. Of course they only imagined it, they
were only deceiving themselves; but how deplorable were the results.
She herself had grown old as people should grow old--steadily and
firmly. No interruptions, no belated after-glows and spasmodic
returns. If, after all these years, she were now going to be deluded
into some sort of unsuitable breaking-out, how humiliating.
Indeed she was thankful, that second week, that Kate Lumley was
not there. It would be most unpleasant, should anything different
occur in her behaviour, to have Kate looking on. Kate had known her
all her life. She felt she could let herself go--here Mrs. Fisher
frowned at the book she was vainly trying to concentrate on, for where
did that expression come from?--much less painfully before strangers
than before an old friend.
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