"I've come to speak about our little girl," she said, sitting down and crossing her booted legs.
Mrs. Barbour bridled a little; but youthful habits are strong. She resumed her deferential manner.
"I trust she has been giving no trouble, m'lady."
"She has perhaps exposed a meddling old woman to the worst snub of her life. I'm going to be crude, Mrs. Barbour. What on earth are you going to make of that child?"
Mrs. Barbour plaited the table cover, but seemed to have no answer ready.
"She's growing lovelier every day" (the foolish mother's eyes glistened); "she dresses like a little fashion plate; she has more silver stuff and finery in her room than any of us girls had at Castle Cullen; she hasn't a friend in the world nor an idea in her head; and we've an instance," with a glance up at the ceiling, "near enough at hand, where beauty with nothing else can bring a woman."
Mrs. Barbour's eyes began to fill. Not a single harsh truth but voiced a reproach that had been nibbling her own heart for years.
"Why don't you send her to school? Do you know that if you were a poor woman you could be fined or sent to prison?"
"Schools are so dear."
"Stuff! They're cheaper and better than they ever were. There's nothing young folk can't do now. You can go from a boarding school to the 'varsity on a string. Let's send her to school, Mrs. B.," she persisted. "You've no time to look after her, and neither have I."