"With a lot of fat, greasy, gobbling Germans?"
"Do you know any Germans?"
"No—at least there was our German music-master at school, and he was fat and greasy, and I am sure he must have gobbled. He must have done. They all do."
"You used to say he played like an angel," Mrs. Ingestre interposed.
"So he did. But I hated him all the same. I hate all Germans."
Her tone rang with a sort of school-girl obstinacy. Her attitude, with lifted chin and straight shoulders, was eloquent with national arrogance and scorn.
Mrs. Ingestre turned away.
"I shall write to Fräulein Müller and tell her to make all arrangements," she said. "I think, if everything proves suitable, that you had better go to Karlsburg."
"Mother! You haven't even given me the choice!"
"I do not think it wise to do so," Mrs. Ingestre answered gravely. "You are right, Nora; you must see the world. You must go away from here, not just for the sake of the music, the change, and excitement, but in order that your heart may grow wider, in order to learn to love the good that lies outside your own little sphere. There are great things, great people outside Delford, Nora—yes, and outside England. You must learn to know them."