“I think, Peggy, for a short time when you are downstairs, you had better just say, ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘please,’ or ‘thank you,’ and when I’m up in my room with you, or walking with you, or telling you stories about Ireland, I will gradually tell you the words you mustn’t say, and you will see, darling, at the end of a week that you will have learnt to drop a lot of the words that now seem to you so necessary and you will have fresh ones to take their place.”
“Very well, Miss Mary.”
Just then the luncheon gong sounded.
“Now, dear, I’m not ‘Miss Mary,’ and remember that the girls are Jessie and Molly, and when you speak to Mrs. Wyndham you are to say, ‘Mrs. Wyndham,’ not ‘ma’am,’ and you are to sit close to me, and on no account to eat your food with your fingers.”
“Why for not? It’s twice as fast.”
“But that is not the question, dear; it isn’t done.”
“I can’t manage a knife and fork nohow.”
“Well, watch me. Will you try and eat like me and speak like me? Now, I know you’re very clever—you can imitate. If you can imitate a bird, surely you can imitate a girl. Well, now, imitate me, won’t you?”
“But that would be laughin’ at ye like.”
“No, no, not at all; it won’t be laughing at me. Try and speak the way I speak.”