Her chance observations were generally noteworthy either for their
sense or their humour. It was only her sense of humour, I think, that
saved her from being sentimental; but she gave expression to it in
season and out of season, and would let it carry her too far sometimes,
for she made enemies for herself more than once by the way she exposed
the absurdity of certain things to the very people who believed in
them. Every lapse of this kind caused her infinite regret, but the
fault seemed incurable: she was always either repenting of it or
committing it, although, having so many quirks of her own, she felt
that she, of all people in the world, should have dealt most tenderly
with the weaknesses of others.
She knew how narrowly she escaped being sentimental, and would often
joke about her danger in that respect. "This lovely summer weather
makes me _sickly_ sentimental," she told me once. "I feel like the
heroine of a three-volume novel written by a young lady of eighteen,
and I think continually of _him_. I don't know in the least who
_he_ is, but that makes no difference.
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