Phœbe remembered what Sophie had said about keeping one’s chin up. She raised hers now. “I used to,” she reminded. “So I know. And Uncle John and I are reading Dickens’s ‘Child’s History of England’—it’s a wonderful book. Oh, we’ve got a whole year’s work planned out.”
Miss Simpson sat back, swallowed, glanced right and left—then broke forth in a smile that was meant to be warmly diplomatic. “I see,” she cooed. “But I’ve come today, Phœbe, because—ah—er—I’m calling on all of my pupils for the Fall term, and so——”
Up went Phœbe’s chin another inch. She returned the diplomatic smile. “But, Miss Simpson,” she protested pleasantly, “I wouldn’t change my tutor for anything. Uncle Bob says a tutor is ever so much more stylish than a private school.”
Miss Simpson’s face set. She rose as if propelled upward by a spring. “However,” she said icily, “a private school might be of great value to you. It might help to eradicate the effect of your moving-picture training, and teach you that nice little girls are never loquacious.” Now she revolved toward Phœbe’s grandmother. “Where, I wonder, is dear Genevieve?” she inquired.
“Grandma,” said Phœbe, “Genevieve didn’t seem to care a bit for this wonderful ‘Kenilworth’, so she’s outside.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Blair.” Miss Simpson extended a long arm.
“But you’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you, Miss Simpson?”—Grandma was following her guest, who was even now at the hall door. “The Judge will be home, and he’ll be so glad to see you, and——” Miss Simpson was already in the hall; Grandma went with her, closing the door upon the straight-standing, angry little figure at the middle of the library floor.
“Yes, have a cup of tea, Miss Simpson!” cried Phœbe, wrathful. “The Judge’ll be home and he won’t be glad to see you! You’ll take me back, now that my mother’s dead! Well, you won’t! I’ll read the classics first! Scott!”—she whirled “Kenilworth” to the sofa—“And History! And anything!” Whereat she flung herself bodily atop the book and the sofa, buried her face in a cushion and wept.
“Phœbe!” It was Sophie, come to hear the results of the Simpson visit. “Whatever is the matter?”
Phœbe sat up. “Lots of things,” she declared. “This house—it never gets any smaller. And everybody grown up. And, oh, think of having Uncle John six days of the week at home and twice at church on Sunday!”