Rosalie said in a low voice, “To what end?”
He did not hear her. She had got out from the accumulation of papers of her business life prospectuses and booklets of the school and he was amusedly browsing over the refinements and advantages therein, not by traditions but by precedents, set forth. “Mice and Mumps, Rosalie,” said he, “they not only do riding as a regular thing but ‘parents are permitted, if they wish, to stable a pupil’s own pony (see page 26).’ Oh, thanks, thanks! ‘Mr. Harry Occleve, barrister-at-law, availing himself of your gracious permission on page twenty-six, is sending down for his daughter a coach and four with ‘ostlers, grooms, coachmen, and outriders complete.’ Ha!”
She was just watching him.
He said after an interval: “Yes, there’s a lot of sound stuff here, Rosalie. It’s convincing. Not that any one needs convincing on the point less than you and I.” He quoted again. “‘And advance them towards an independent and a womanly womanhood.’ And it talks further back about how ‘Idle women’ will soon be recognised as great a term of reproach as ‘an idle man.’ It’s sound. I like this booklet here that each girl’s given, ‘To the Girl of the Future.’ It tells them all about an independent career, makes no fancy picture of it, tells ‘em everything. Did you read that?”
“A long time ago. It probably doesn’t tell them one thing.”
“What?”
“That they can always—chuck it.”
He looked up quickly. “Hull-o!”
She gave him no response to his expressed surprise and he laughed and said, “D’you know, Rosalie, I don’t believe I’ve ever before heard you use slang.”
“You taught me that bit, Harry.”