“I am going away myself next week,” said Penelope, bluntly.
“Next week!” cried Mademoiselle, much startled and delighted at this news. “But is that indeed so? for Madame say nothing of it. She say to me this morning: ‘You take excellent care of my pupil, Penelope Carlton, and give her of the food sufficient, and of the mental food also, that she will digest.’”
“I won’t digest any of it,” said Penelope, bluntly.
“That was my thought, but I dared not express it. I knew well the dulness of your intellect, and although last night you did soar into a different world—ma foi, you did take me by surprise!—you are yourself a very triste little girl—an enfant indistinguishable, with neither the gifts of beauty nor of genius.”
“Well—I am going—it is arranged. Mrs Hazlitt will doubtless be written to.”
“And where do you go, pauvre petite?” asked the governess.
“I am going to stay with Honora Beverley, at Castle Beverley,” replied Penelope, with even a touch of arrogance in her small voice.
Mademoiselle opened her eyes wide.
“With her!—my pupil magnifique, and so beautiful! She has the air distinguished and the manner noble. She belongs to the rich and to the great. She takes you up—but pourquoi?”
“Kindness—I suppose,” said Penelope. “I am lonely, and they have a big house; I am going there.”