"Perhaps so," said Dimbie, with a fine disregard of all trains. "Was she very clever?"
I was pleased at his interest in my much-loved governess.
"I don't know," I replied. "I am not clever enough to know. But whatever she said seemed to me intensely interesting. Mother and even Peter were inclined to hang on her words. She was so witty, so gay; she had such a sense of humour. You see, she was only twenty-eight when she left. She came to us when she was twenty, just after taking a most fearful degree. Mother says Peter most strongly objected to this degree; that he said women should only take things like measles and scarlet fever, and be feminine, remembering their place in nature, and not try to be clever; and that if only Miss Fairbrother would do her hair properly and wear white-lace petticoats, she even might get married—there was no telling. And mother argued that she did not wish Miss Fairbrother to be married till she had thoroughly grounded me and prepared me for that high-class boarding school, Lynton House.
"And I recollect Peter snorted at this, and said that if Miss Fairbrother could just manage to knock a little writing, reading, and arithmetic into my head and teach me to sew and knit, he, for one, would be satisfied. And he forbade anyone—man or woman—to instruct me in the art of painting flowers, afterwards to be framed and stuck on his walls. I cannot convey to you the scorn in his voice as he shouted the words 'painting flowers.'"
"I think he was right there," said Dimbie.
"So do I," I laughed; "but Peter had forgotten that the painting of still life was a product of a bygone age. To imagine Miss Fairbrother teaching me such an art would be to imagine her teaching me how to embroider wool-work pictures. Granny worked two fierce cats with spreading, startled whiskers, in Berlin wool. They adorn my old nursery walls to this day. Miss Fairbrother made up lovely, exciting tales about them and their habits, and for some little time, till I grew older, I was under the impression they left their frames at night and sported on the tiles. We called them Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Balfour."
"I must go," said Dimbie. "The cats are most interesting, and so is Miss Fairbrother, but I have our living to make. What do you say to asking her to visit us for a bit when she arrives?"
He spoke in a nonchalant way, and I looked up quickly. He had said he shouldn't have anyone to stay with us under twelve months. His back was turned to me, so I couldn't see his face.
"Do you want her?" I asked.
"I want her? Certainly not. But you sound so keen on her, and—she sounds lonely."