"You don't write, I presume?" She suddenly demanded. To say 'yes' would have meant falling instantly into her disfavor. 'No' wasn't exactly a lie. "Only when inspiration strikes" was the reply.
"Strikes? Hmph. Well well, I hope it doesn't attack you very often. It's a terrible thing to be black and blue. I had a Cousin who was black and blue all the time - it was very unbecoming. Well well. Being struck by inspiration is getting to be very popular, I hear. Appalling. In my day, being a writer was not well thought of. I had an Aunt who was a writer. It was a disgrace to the Family Name. She was always dashing about, finding or inventing plots and tragedies and scandals in the lives of honest people. We were ashamed to own her," the lady said loftily, as if secretly proud of having such a blot on the Family Name. "You come from a good family, I hear. Well well. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I suppose you are fortunate to grow up so respectably. I, well I could hardly hold my head up. It was such a difficult thing, having an Aunt in whose veins flowed ink instead of blood. I am sure my fate was forever altered by it." The lady sighed heavily, and paused a moment to work the tears into her old eyes. Presently she sighed again and dabbed viciously with a handkerchief of spidery lace. "She was so ungrateful! Our family was of the finest blood, and she refused to claim it. It was just as well. She laughed too much to be dignified. Very queer. Anyone who opens their mouth so often is bound to have their senses leak out eventually. You know how she died," this being more of a statement than a question. "No!" in a dreadfully shocked tone. "Well well. She was digging about in her garden. She kept a gardener but I'm sure I don't know what he did, for she wouldn't let him touch the earth. She was a terrible gardener, my Aunt was. Her plants were forever hovering on the edge of the grave. Perhaps because they were already so near to the ground," here she gave a dour chuckle at her own joke. "At any rate, she had taken it into her head to plant a row of tulips by the back fence, which, as I'm sure you realize, is a very foolish place for tulips. Put them in the front, where they can be seen, we told her. But no, they must go in the back. A perfect waste. Her spade hit an underground bee's nest. She was stung to death! It was a dreadful way to die, even for a writer," she added grudgingly. "Well well. One can't choose the way one dies, I suppose. No one ever finished planting the tulips. The spade is still there where she dropped it.
"Going so soon? Well well. The madness of the youth, I suppose. I can see you haven't learned the art of living aristocratically. We never dash about so unrespectably. The sensibilities of your generation have been hopelessly marred. Disgraceful, I think. But what does it matter what I think? I am just an old woman of no value, and no one wants to listen to me. I suppose it is because of the disgrace my Aunt brought upon us. Do come again, I would be gald to see you, I am sure. Mind you don't let the rain ruin your hat, and don't step into a puddle; it's bad luck on a Friday. Though you look like the sort to attract bad luck any day of the week. I had an uncle like that. Couldn't stay away from the stuff. One time - well well, she's gone. Pity she had to leave so soon. I liked how she talked."