“I suppose it is,” I said; but then I added, “You cannot expect me to feel about it in that way.”
“Why so?”
“It seems to me,” I continued, “that I have been for the last few months taken off my feet and whirled into all sorts of new conditions. We were so poor, so straitened; we seemed to have none of what you would call the good things of life. Then all of a sudden Fortune’s wheel turned and we were—I suppose—rich. But still—”
“Don’t say you prefer the old life.”
“No—not really. I know she is so good; but you must admit that it is a great change for me.”
“I know it is; but you ought to be thankful.”
“That is it; I don’t think I am. And what is more,” I continued, “I don’t think this is the right school for Augusta. There is just a possibility that I may be shaped and moulded and twisted into a sort of fine lady; but nothing will ever make Augusta commonplace, nor will anything make you commonplace. Oh dear! there is some one knocking at the door.”
The knock was repeated. We said, “Come in!” and a girl with a very curly head of dark hair, bright eyes to match, and a radiant face, first peeped at us, then entered, shut the door with a noisy vehemence, and came towards as with both her hands extended.
Half-way across the room she deliberately shut her eyes.
“Now, I wonder which of you I shall feel first. One is Dumps and the other Hermione. I am expected to adore Dumps because she is so jolly and plain and sensible and—and awkward; and I am expected to worship Hermione because she is exactly the reverse. Now—ah! I know—this is Hermione!”