This made Grandpapa’s attitude the more vexatious.
“I shall be able to come home for Christmas, you know, Grandpapa,” she said one day.
“Where are we now—August? And they want you to begin at the end of this month?”
“That’s so that I shall get used to the work before the rush begins. The end of August is the slackest time in London,” Lydia explained, and the next minute was vexed with herself, as Grandpapa remarked meekly: “Is it indeed, now? Thank’ee, my dear, for telling me that.”
“I hope I’m going to make a success of it, and make you all proud of me,” said Lydia with determination. “You know, Grandpapa, in the evenings I am going to begin writing. Do you remember that when I was quite a little girl I told you that I wanted to write books?”
“I do. You were a nice little girl, Lyddie—a sensible, well-behaved, little child. Not like those hoydens of girls at Wimbledon. If you write anything worth the postage, you may send it to me—though I’m sure I don’t know who’ll read it to me.”
This was the nearest that Grandpapa could be induced to go towards any rapprochement on the eve of Lydia’s departure.
She said good-bye to him as affectionately as she dared, and he replied calmly:
“Good-bye to you, my dear. Your Aunt Beryl wants me to give you a Bible or some parting advice, but I shall do nothing of the sort. If you’re a good girl, you’ll know how to look after yourself, and if you’re a bad girl, then all the advice in the world won’t keep you straight.”
Lydia could not help thinking rather resentfully that Grandpapa’s tones sounded just as though either contingency would leave him equally unmoved.