“Now, steady,” he calmed her. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. That’s a bargain; isn’t it? No Warren business, if you don’t like it. Remember, you’re going to do as you like.”
“Yes,” she said more calmly; but all the rebellion in her was stirring.
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t worked out the plan yet. The Warren school is—well, I’m thinking about it. I’ve been looking into the School of Applied Arts, too.”
“That’s more like it,” she was blinking hard.
“You see,” he showed her his perplexity. “You and I aren’t getting anywhere. We just sit around and talk and talk—at least, I do—”
“But that’s the joy of it,” she was astonished at his sudden dullness. “Don’t you like our—talks?”
“Bless my soul, yes! They’re great! You bring me out; make me think of things I didn’t know I knew. Enjoy it? Jerusalem! But your mother thinks I am teaching you things—”
“Why, you are,” her eyes grew wide. “Every day I learn lots from you. I can’t give you up, Mr. Blynn. Why, we have the most beautiful pow-wows. Nobody else really talks to me. Look,” she picked up the Browning, “you have given me Andrea today; I never could have gotten it myself. And I’m just nervous thinking of more you will give me. Don’t—don’t—send me off, just when we were—. It’s mean!” she quavered, stamping her foot in vexation, for she had prided herself on not being a weeping person, and lately the tears were swelling on the flimsiest provocation.
But he was firm about regular school and took pains to make his reasons clear to her. His scheme for her—which gradually began to form as he talked—was special hours at Miss Warren’s in German and French. They had a new Swiss teacher there who had a splendid bi-lingual training. She would also get music, mathematics and Latin. Once or twice a week she would take the metal classes in the School of Applied Arts. The Italian she would have to keep up by reading, for awhile at least.
“But English literature?” she protested. “Aren’t you going to keep on with your readings? Why, we’ve hardly begun!”