O horrible verbs, O hateful Première Année de Grammaire, and thrice-hateful genders!
Why should a table be feminine and an arm-chair masculine?
Lydia hated her French, and continued to say “Esker le feneter de la salong ay ouvere?” in a lamentable voice and an unalterably British accent. Very few of Miss Glover’s girls were “good at French.” Only three had any acquaintance with German, and of these one was Dutch.
Many of them could play the piano correctly, and even brilliantly, some of them could copy free-hand drawings or plaster casts, but hardly one could write a letter without making mistakes in spelling, punctuation, and English. All, unconsciously enough, were more or less defective in the correct pronunciation of English.
Since brains, in Great Britain, are for the most part the prerogative of the middle classes, it follows that their possessors enjoy a certain prestige among their compeers which would, on those same grounds, be denied them in more exalted circles.
Lydia found that her schoolfellows were proud of her cleverness, and disposed to seek her friendship.
She easily assumed leadership amongst the group of girls of her own age who were also day boarders at Miss Glover’s.
“Do help me with this beastly sum, Lydia. I’m sure you can do it.”
Lydia always acceded very graciously to such frequent requests, partly because she loved to show her own superior attainments, and partly because of a very definite conviction, which she had never yet put into words, that it was always worth while to show oneself agreeable. In consequence of this complacence, she was seldom at a loss for companionship in play-time. There was always someone to walk about with, arms round one another’s waists after the immemorial schoolgirl practice, heads close together under black or scarlet tam o’ shanter, for a better exchange of confidences.
Then Lydia put into practice Grandpapa’s Golden Rule: Always let the other people talk about themselves.