“No, Grandpapa,” she began in the horrified accents of outraged conventionality, when she remembered in time Grandpapa’s uncanny faculty for penetrating to one’s real true, inmost opinion.
“Not more,” she said boldly, “but I know as much of Little Arthur’s History as there is in the book, and auntie can’t take me any further in French or fractions, and she never has time to give me proper music lessons. I only do scales, and Weber’s Last Valse, by myself. And I can feel I’m not getting on, Grandpapa—and I do so want to.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got to earn my own living,” said Lydia, rather proud of the words, “and besides, I’m going to write books.”
“Can you spell?”
“Yes, Grandpapa.”
“You’ll be the first woman of my acquaintance that could, then,” said Grandpapa unbelievingly.
“But there are heaps of other things I ought to know besides spelling,” she urged.
“Well, I suppose that’s true. But what is it you want to do? I won’t pay for a Madame to come and parlyvoo every day,” said Grandpapa in sarcastic allusion to a recent flight on the part of Aunt Beryl’s friends, the Jacksons.
“Would it be very expensive to let me go to school for a little bit, Grandpapa?”