“Don’t worry me, Sibyl, you know my views. I want you to be just a sensible, good child, without any of those high-flown notions. When we return to town you must make up for your long holiday. You must do your lessons with extreme care, and try to please Miss Winstead.”
“And to please father and Lord Jesus.”
“Yes, yes, child.”
“And to have a ride every morning on my darling pony?”
“We will try and manage that. Lord Grayleigh has been almost silly over that pony; I doubt whether it is wise for you to have it.”
“Oh, mother, he did say he would buy everything—the pony, the saddle, the habit, and he would ’ford the food, too. You have not got to pay out any money, mother, have you?”
“Hush, don’t talk so loud.”
The old gentleman buried himself in The Times in order not to hear Sibyl’s distressed voice, and the little boy stared out of the window and got very red.
“Take up your book and stop talking,” said Mrs. Ogilvie.
Sibyl took up a book which she already knew by heart, and kept back a sorrowful sigh.