“They will grow into little common vulgar things,” said she.
“They will get a sound education,” said he.
But that had no attraction for her—perhaps she did not quite understand the phrase.
So matters went on, and after a terrible deal of argument the children went to the elementary school. Their father took them himself, and Elinor confidently, though privately, affirmed afterwards that the schoolmistress fell in love with him, though on what grounds it would be hard to say. Elinor loved to circulate stories like this—it added zest to life. This precocious young lady had previously gathered Maggie and Deborah together and admonished them.
“Now you’re not to speak to any of the children at this new school we’re going to. They’re very common, and if you talk to them you’ll grow as common as they. Now do you hear, Maggie? You’re to make no friends at all.”
“All right,” said Maggie.
“Aren’t we to speak to them if they speak to us?” piped Deborah.
“Of course not. Now remember. At dinner-time I shall ask you.”
How Maggie fared Deborah never knew, but she herself fared badly.
She was placed next to a very loquacious child to whom pride, that kind of pride, was a sealed book.