"At school. It is to Miss Fenton's that you are going."
"Is that where Frances and Mary go?"
"No," she answered, a smile crossing her lips. "They would not be admitted to Miss Fenton's."
"But why?"
"Because she professes to take none but gentlemen's daughters. My daughters, especially with their father living in the same town, would not do at any price. It will be a condescension," she laughed, "that Miss Fenton allows you to dine with us once in a while."
"Perhaps she will not take me," I breathlessly said.
"My dear, she will be only too glad to do so. You are the daughter of Colonel Hereford, the granddaughter of Carew of Keppe-Carew."
And in spite of the lost caste of Mrs. Hemson, in spite of the shop below, I never spent a happier week than the one I spent with her.
And now came school life; school life that was to continue without intermission, and did continue, until I was eighteen years of age. Part of these coming years were spent at Miss Fenton's; the rest (as I found afterwards) at a school in France. It is very much the custom to cry down French scholastic establishments, to contrast them unfavourably with English ones. They may deserve the censure; I do not know; but I can truthfully say that so far as my experience goes, the balance is on the other side.
Miss Fenton's was a "Select Establishment," styling itself a first-class one. I have often wondered whether those less select, less expensive, were not more liberal in their arrangements. Fourteen was the number of girls professed to be taken, but never once, during my stay, was the school quite full. It had a name; and there lay the secret of its success. The teaching was good; the girls were brought on well: but for the comforts! You shall hear of them. And I declare that I transcribe each account faithfully.