At this invitation the girls crossed the room and seated themselves in chairs and on the ottoman, which held two—Beryl and Caroline.
"We are very pleased to meet you, Miss Crabingway, and we want to thank—" Pamela began, when Miss Crabingway broke in suddenly.
"What was the date yesterday?" she asked.
Pamela, taken aback for a moment, replied, "Oh—the 27th, I think."
"Ah," said Miss Crabingway. "Yes, I'm glad I sent Joseph Sigglesthorne that telegram. He never can remember dates—especially after the 8th of each month. They always send him in two rashers of bacon every morning for his breakfast during the first week in each month—after that they give him boiled eggs every day until the end of the month, and it becomes so monotonous that he can't distinguish one day from another. It's certainly rather confusing, isn't it? I've told him I'd change the restaurant or coffee-house, or whatever it is that supplies him with breakfast; but he's used to it, and he doesn't like change—so it's no good my talking or giving him calendars—I just send him a telegram."
Miss Crabingway seated herself and began rustling and sorting the papers on the little table in front of her.
"And now," she continued in her decisive voice, flashing a glance round her puzzled audience, and once again looking last and longest at Beryl, "I didn't ask you to come up here in order to discuss Joseph Sigglesthorne's breakfast—as you will doubtless guess. I asked you here to tell you a true story, and, if you please, don't speak to me until I've finished."
Without more ado Miss Crabingway gave a dry little cough and began hurriedly:
"There was an elderly person who was rich, and lonely—" she paused for a second, then added with emphasis, "and crotchety! Yes, that's what she was, though most of her acquaintances called her eccentric, and quaint—out of politeness.... As she grew older she grew more and more lonely; and realizing one day (when she was feeling ill and depressed) that she couldn't take her money with her when she died, she determined that she would make use of it now and give some benefit and enjoyment to herself, and, if possible, to others.... She—she had taken a great fancy to a young girl she had come across recently—the daughter of a very old and valued friend who died some years back.... And what made her particularly—crotchety, was that she had wanted to adopt this girl, and the girl's relatives had refused. For what reason, it is impossible to say! For the relatives were not over-rich, nor over-fond of the girl.... Probably it was because the relatives were not offered enough money.... Anyway, the elderly person had a quarrel with the relatives, and the elderly person went off in a huff, which she afterward regretted—and would have gone back and said so, only about this time some urgent business affairs called her away from home. Before she went she thought of a plan whereby she could give the young girl she liked a rest from her relatives, and at the same time help her to develop her character. For the elderly person had long cherished a belief that most young girls in their early teens would do better in after life if they had a chance to develop their characters, for a time, away from the influence of their parents or guardians.... Having heard of three other young girls whom she thought it would be interesting to try the experiment on, the elderly person sent out invitations to all four, adding a little inducement, in the shape of a sum of money, to each."
Miss Crabingway, having now touched on a subject in which she was evidently greatly interested, went on to express her ideas about character development at some length, adding that when she was a girl herself she had suffered from character-suppression, and had been cramped and moulded by her own parents so that she had not an idea nor opinion of her own all the years she lived under their influence.