This ungracious conviction she once haltingly attempted to explain to Eleanor, early faced with the endeavour that has defeated so many, that of avoiding the only form of words obviously designed to express what she wished to have understood, and finding instead some other formula in which it might be conveyed with equal lucidity and yet less outspokenness.
The results were a number of self-contradictory statements from Lily, followed by tears.
"But what is it that I don't understand, my baby?" Eleanor urged her to return to the attack.
"Me," quavered Lily, suddenly explicit.
Her mother winced very visibly indeed.
Lily felt unutterably naughty.
"My dearest," said Eleanor at last, "how can a grown-up person not understand a little child? You're talking nonsense, you know. There can be nothing in a little girl of ten years old that's beyond the understanding of a grown-up, experienced person. And to say that a mother doesn't understand her own child, is to suggest something that can't possibly be. Some day you'll know what I mean."
"When?" said Lily.
Eleanor's absolute belief in the creed that she had enunciated perforce carried a certain conviction to Lily's bewildered and undeveloped mind.
"When?" she repeated.