"Our Dorothy is thirteen and a half and stands five-foot five in her stockings. Five-foot five, and a back like a ramrod. Now, Lily isn't five-foot five, I'm positive of that. We'll measure her to-morrow, and you'll find she's not five-foot five. Nowhere near it."
Philip made a politely acquiescent sound.
"Drilling is what she wants, drilling and games. It's done everything in the world for my kiddie-widdies. Little Sylvia, now, didn't hold herself as well as the other two—was rather inclined to poke. And after one term at Bridgecrap she's holding her head up, and her shoulders back, and talks of nothing but hockey."
Philip suppressed a shudder at a consummation which appeared to him so utterly undesirable.
"You must send Lily to Bridgecrap," said Charlie Hardinge positively. "No place like it. Splendid air—right up above the sea, outdoor games all the year round—swimming and gym—everything you can think of."
"Who is the lady in charge?"
"A splendid woman—splendid woman. Miss Melody—Monica Melody. You've heard of her, of course—took a university degree, and has written some very sound stuff about education. Mind you, I sounded her very carefully before I sent the kiddies. Ethel and I had really had no idea of sending them to school at all—but they were keen to go. It was their own idea—Dorothy started it."
Philip almost groaned.
"I can hardly understand the idea of young children who actually want to leave home," he said, considerably understating his case.
"Your kiddie-widdie wants to go to school too, eh?" said Charlie acutely. "I thought so. I thought so now, I thought so. You take it all too seriously, my dear fellow, far too seriously. It's very natural, you know. My little girliekins had one another, after all, but Lily hasn't a soul—not a soul of her own age."