"I really must make up my mind to take you to Châteaublanc," Grandmamma proclaimed after Mary had been in Paris for nearly two months. "Did you tell me that Mr. Fawcus taught you to read and write?"
"Yes, and he said I learned very quickly."
"So I should think," Grandmamma commented dryly. "I'm afraid you'll have a hard time at school."
Mary began to dread this school which was always being talked about, and every time with some unpleasant addition to its already long list of disagreeable potentialities.
"I didn't intend to go to Aix until late in the summer," said Grandmamma. "And I had thought of keeping you with me until then, but perhaps it's unwise to postpone your education any longer. So I'll take you there next week. I've written to Mademoiselle Lucinge and suggested that you should stay right on through the summer holidays, so that by Christmas, when you'll be nearly eleven years old, won't you, I shall expect to see quite a different Mary."
Perhaps Mary looked sad at the notion of the change that was to be wrought in her by so many consecutive months of Mademoiselle Lucinge's Pension. At any rate, Lady Flower became momentarily affectionate, as she put her arm round Mary and said:
"It's not your fault, you poor little thing, and you mustn't think I'm unkind. But I do want you to be able to get a great deal out of life, and there's nothing that is so terribly able to prevent that as not knowing exactly how to behave."
Mary stared at her grandmother, utterly incapable of understanding what she was talking about.
The old lady—for when Lady Flower unbent she suddenly became an old lady—took Mary upon her knee.
"You funny little thing," she said, "you and I are so very much alone in the world."