"This is a lonely place, as you know," said Philip stiffly. "There are no girls of her own age within a reasonable distance."
"Well, are there any boys then, any boys?"
"Boys?"
"Boys—boys of her own age. Boys, boys, boys. If there are no girls for the poor kiddie to play with, I suppose she must play with boys."
Philip rose from his chair and made elaborate examination of a slightly smoking lamp.
By the time that he had meticulously adjusted it, he was able to turn round and speak with calm.
"I shouldn't like my little Lily to become a tomboy. She is quite happy in her own little nursery."
"Now, what's the good of talking as though she were still a baby? She's not a baby—you really must make up your mind to it, my dear chap, that the kiddie isn't a baby any longer."
Philip was quite incapable of making up his mind to anything of the sort, but by sheer force of iteration Charlie Hardinge succeeded in accustoming his mind to the possibility of sending Lily to Bridgecrap.
To Lily's dismay, almost as much as to Philip's own, Charlie asked her in her father's presence: