"I thought she had plenty of friends. Didn't I meet some of them going away yesterday as I returned home?"
"Yes, but she doesn't enjoy having them here. I should be sorry, Gordon, to believe our darling was selfish."
"That she most certainly is not!" declared Mr. Lindsay emphatically.
"Not with us, but I'm afraid she doesn't like her small plans disturbed by other children. She's not very ready to give up her own way; indeed I was obliged to scold her yesterday for reading a book instead of entertaining her visitors."
"She gets absorbed in her books."
"Too much so. She needs to be made to run about more. She's such a gentle little mouse, she always prefers quiet games to a romp. It's not healthy for a child to live continually with only grown-up people. We've thought so earnestly about her education, and she has been taught so carefully and well, that I really believe we've given her a kind of mental indigestion!"
Mr. Lindsay laughed.
"She's very bright for her age," he said. "She can talk about botany and antiquities as well or better than many an older person. I'd rather have Sylvia for a companion than half the people I know."
"But she mustn't turn out a prig, and I fear she's in sad danger of doing so if we don't take matters in hand at once. Intellectual interests are delightful, and we want her to have them, but they hardly supply the place of tennis and rounders at eleven years of age. She's far too thin and pale and fragile looking. Louisa says we have been developing her mind at the expense of her body."
Mr. Lindsay groaned and wrinkled up his forehead into lines and puckers.