My life now began to be entirely different. All the week I worked gaily for that one glorious day on which my lessons took place. I had bought a grammar of the English language, and studied it whenever I could spare a minute. My teacher seemed much pleased with my zeal, but I soon found out that she had made up her mind to give me lessons in more things than English.
One day when I sat with her in her room, that had never lost its charm for me, she asked me quite abruptly why a button was missing from my jacket, and why my nails were always dirty. I felt exceedingly ashamed at the two questions, and stammered some silly reply. At first I thought she did not like me, but she was so sweet during the rest of that lesson that I felt sure she had grown fond of me. When I got home that evening the cook was already in bed. She looked at me in surprise because I did not go to bed at once, as I was in the habit of doing, but took my sewing-basket and searched its contents.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"For a pair of scissors."
"What on earth do you want them for now?"
"Oh, only for my nails."
"Which nails?"
But by that time I had discovered what I wanted, and having sat down on the edge of my bed, I started to clean one finger after the other.
"Well," my friend exclaimed, "something has got into your head to be sure."
"Nothing at all—but don't you think my hands are simply horrid?"