“Sit back in your seat and don’t chatter,” she said, “you disturb other people.”
The other people in the carriage consisted of a very old gentleman and a small boy of Sibyl’s own age. The small boy smiled at Sibyl and she smiled back, and if her mother had permitted it would have chatted to him in a moment of her hopes and longings; but, when mother put on that look, Sibyl knew that she must restrain her emotions, and she sat back in her seat, and thought about the children who bore the yoke in their youth, and how good it was for them, and how rapidly she was growing into the sort of little girl her father most liked.
“Mother,” she said, as they got towards the end of the journey, “I’m ’proving, aren’t I?”
“Proving, what do you mean?”
“Improving, mother.”
“I can’t say that I see it, Sibyl; you have been very troublesome for the last few days.”
“Oh!” said the child, “oh!”
Sibyl changed seats from the one opposite, and nestled up close to her mother, she tucked her hand inside her arm, and then began to talk in a loud, buzzing whisper.
“It’s ’cos of father,” she said; “he begged me so earnest to be a good girl, and I have tried, haven’t you noticed it, mother? Won’t you tell him when we get home that I have tried?”