Margot had caught to perfection the refined, elegant, fashionable tone of speaking of the servile classes. Though I was in a critical mood that morning, I was not critical of my beloved little Margot, and her airs entertained me as much as ever. Said I:
“Sit down, little duchess”—the familiar name slipped out unconsciously—“and talk to me a few minutes.”
“But I’m shockingly late, papa,” pleaded she.
“No matter. I’ll telephone Miss Ryper, if you wish.” To the butler, who was serving me: “Sackville, go tell Therese that I’m detaining Miss Margot. And close the door behind you.”
Sackville retired. Margot seated herself with alacrity. She did not like her useless school any better than other children like more or less useful schools. “Are you taking me to the theater Saturday afternoon, as you promised?” said she. “And do get a box and let me ask two of the girls.”
“Certainly,” said I. “If I can’t go, Miss Parnell will chaperon you.”
“No, I want you, papa. It’s so nice to have a man.”
“How are you getting on at school? Not with the studies”—I laughed at the absurdity of calling her fiddle-faddle studies—“but with the girls?”
Her face clouded. “Has mamma told you?”
“Told me what?”