No social occasion in
Eden Place was complete without Mrs. Grubb. With her (and some light
refreshment), a party lacked nothing; without her, even if other
conditions were favourable, it seemed a flat, stale, and unprofitable
affair. Like Robin Adair,
'She made the ball so fine;
She made th' occasion shine.'
Mrs. Grubb hanging on her front gate, duster in hand (she never
conversed quite as well without it, and never did anything else with
it), might have been a humble American descendant of Madame de Stael
talking on the terrace at Coppet, with the famous sprig of olive in
her fingers. She moved among her subjects like a barouche among
express wagons, was heard after them as a song after sermons. That
she did not fulfil the whole duty of woman did not occur to her
fascinated constituents. There was always some duller spirit who
could slip in and 'do the dishes,' that Mrs. Grubb might grace a
conversazione on the steps or at the gate. She was not one of those
napkin people who hide their talents, or who immure their lights
under superincumbent bushels. Whatever was hers was everybody's, for
she dispensed her favours with a liberal hand. She would never have
permitted a child to suffer for lack of food or bed, for she was not
at heart an unkind woman.
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