“I don’t want you to envy me,” she said. “I never ask any one to envy me. Those who are geniuses are above anything of that sort.”
“But I should like to ask you a question.”
“What is it? Has it something to do with the great departed, or—”
“It has not,” I said. “It is, how do you ever manage to get to school in the morning? Are you awake? Can you get along the streets? Are you always in a dream as you are now?”
“Mary Roberts, who also comes to the school, but who is in a very inferior class, calls for me. She has done that ever since I lost my way in a distant part of Regent’s Park and was very much scolded by my teacher. I forgot the school; I forgot everything that day. I was puzzling out a problem. Your father could reply to it.”
I made no answer to this, except to pull the bell vigorously myself. This brought Mrs Moore on to the scene. It was a great relief to see a placid-looking, blue-eyed little lady, neatly and nicely dressed, who said, “Augusta, late as usual! And this is your dear little friend.—How do you do, Miss Grant? Come in, dear—come in.”
“Mother,” said Augusta, “while you are on the scold, you may as well scold Miss Grant, or Dumps, as we call her. I am going to my room. I have received two tickets for the next great meeting of the Royal Society. I shall live in bliss with the thought of those tickets until that night. You are to come with me.”
“What night is your father’s lecture?” asked Mrs Moore, glancing at me.
“Next Wednesday,” I answered.
“We cannot possibly go on Wednesday; you know that, Augusta. It is your uncle Charles’s birthday, and we have both been invited to dine with him; he would never forgive us if we did not go.”