Mary was astonished to find how young her grandmother was. She had expected a very old lady—almost she had pictured her with a spinning-wheel and wearing a steeple-crowned hat—who would be bent double and talk in a high, cracked voice. Instead of that she found some one who looked much younger than Aunt Lucy.
"You'll have to go to school, you know," her grandmother was saying. "You'll have a great deal to learn. Let me look at your hands, child. Dear me, I believe you're going to have hands like mine. But your nails are a little grubby."
"That's because I've been gardening all last week."
"Gardening? Where did you garden in London?"
"In the attic. Mr. Bristowe let me garden there."
"No wonder your nails are grubby. And who is Mr. Bristowe?"
"He was the manager of Holland and Brown, where Uncle William was caretaker."
Lady Flower shuddered.
"Listen, Mary. I would rather you gave up calling Mr. and Mrs. Fawcus uncle and aunt. They are not any relation to you, and now that you are getting older you must learn to speak of them as Mr. Fawcus and Mrs. Fawcus."
"But I always called them Uncle William and Aunt Lucy."