“Is this the child, David?”
“Yes, mother.”
Eleanor stared impassively into the lenses of Mrs. Bolling’s lorgnette.
“This is my mother, Eleanor.”
Eleanor courtesied as her Uncle Jimmie had taught her, but she did not take her eyes from Mrs. Bolling’s face.
“Not a bad-looking child. I hate this American fashion of dressing children like French dolls, in bright colors and smart lines. The English are so much more sensible. An English country child would have cheeks as red as apples. How old are you?”
“Eleven years old my next birthday.”
“I should have thought her younger, David. Have her call me madam. It sounds better.”
“Very well, mother. I’ll teach her the ropes when the strangeness begins to wear off. This kind of thing is all new to her, you know.”
“She looks it. Give her the blue chamber and 139 tell Mademoiselle to take charge of her. You say you want her to have lessons for so many hours a day. Has she brains?”