Had I known then as much as I learned afterwards of what it meant to be “taken up” by Mrs. Minchin, I might not have thought the comparison a good omen for my friendship with Matilda. To be hotly taken up by Mrs. Minchin meant an equally hot quarrel at no very distant date. The squabble with the bride was not slow to come, but Matilda and I fell out first. I think she was tyrannical, and I know I was peevish. My Ayah spoilt me; I spoke very broken English, and by no means understood all that the Bullers said to me; besides which, I was feverishly unhappy at intervals about my father.
It was two months before Mrs. Minchin found out that her sweet little puss was a deceitful little cat; but at the end of two days I had offended Matilda, and we plunged into a war of words such as children wage when they squabble.
“I won’t show you any more of my dresses,” said Matilda.
“I’ve seen them all,” I boldly asserted; and the stroke told.
“You don’t know that,” said Matilda.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Well, show me the others then.”
“No, that I won’t.”
“I don’t care.”