Pompey Malahide moved eagerly towards the bell, hesitated—came back:
“I’m real glad to think it, Miss Modeyne,” said he; “but look here, there’s another thing. I don’t want any schooling for them. They are as old as you are, the more’s the pity—both gals have got their hair up.... Ah,” he sighed, “you would have been the making of ’em five years ago; you see”—he sighed again, sadly—“they’ve modelled themselves a bit on me now.... Their mother never comes out of her boudoir. But what I was going to say was this: you can tell ’em what’s bad manners, and go with them to picture-galleries and show them the good things, can’t ye? and all that!”
Betty smiled:
“I think I can do that,” she said simply.
He nodded:
“That’s right. I like to hear a gal say the name of the fellow who did a picture without lookin’ at the catalogue. And all that sort of thing.... Make the girls smart, and knock some sense into them.... They’re as good as gold—real warm-hearted good gals. But they want style. And you can spare them a ton of it—if you’ll excuse a rough and rather vulgar fellow tellin’ you so.”
Betty laughed.
“I think I should like to see the girls now,” she said, “before we decide.”
“Come along, bless ye,” said he, bustling to the door, and walking out first. “Judith!” he bawled—“Mary!”
A girl’s voice called back: