Ethel was silent, and large tears were gathering.
“You own that that is the first thing?”
“Yes,” said Ethel faintly.
“And that it is what you fail in most?”
“Yes.”
“Then, Ethel dearest, when you made up your mind to Cocksmoor, you knew those things could not be done without a sacrifice?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think it would be this.”
Margaret was wise enough not to press her, and she sat down and sighed pitifully. Presently she said, “Margaret, if you would only let me leave off that stupid old French, and horrid dull reading with Miss Winter, I should have plenty of time for everything; and what does one learn by hearing Mary read poetry she can’t understand?”
“You work, don’t you? But indeed, Ethel, don’t say that I can let you leave off anything. I don’t feel as if I had that authority. If it be done at all, it must be by papa’s consent, and if you wish me to ask him about it, I will, only I think it would vex Miss Winter; and I don’t think dear mamma would have liked Greek and Cocksmoor to swallow up all the little common ladylike things.”
Ethel made two or three great gulps; “Margaret, must I give up everything, and forget all my Latin and Greek?”