“Of course!” exclaimed Madame Casalis. “I forgot. No, his name cannot be the same, but we did not hear what it was.”
Armed with two or three learned-looking volumes—for in his humble way Monsieur Casalis was something of a bookworm—Cicely and her little cousin set off the next morning to call on Mrs. Crichton. She was at home, and evidently very glad to see them.
“So kind of you to come to see me so soon, Miss——, and to bring your little cousin,” she hurried on, trying to slur over her ignorance of Cicely’s name. “I am particularly glad you have come, because, do you know, it is very stupid of me; but I generally am very stupid about such things.” She sighed plaintively. “I don’t know what becomes of my head I am sure. What was I saying? Oh! yes to be sure, it was about quite forgetting to ask madame—your mamma’s, I mean” (to Eudoxie)—“to ask madame’s name and address when she was so kind as to come to see me yesterday. Not that I should have required to ask it, but I am so stupid at catching French names. And so you see if you had not come to see me, I could not have come to see you till I had written to ask Mrs. Hulme to get your address. How absurd that would have been to be sure!”
She laughed merrily. Her laugh and voice were both pretty and musical, and there was an infectious sort of youthfulness about her—a genuine naïveté—which was not without its charm. She was small and plump, and still pretty, though no longer young; and though Eudoxie had considerable difficulty in interpreting her rather roundabout way of talking, she remained decidedly of opinion that her soubriquet had been well bestowed.
“I have got some fresh macaroons on purpose for Eudoxie,” said Mrs. Crichton when she had mastered her visitors’ names in full. “What a nice confectioner’s there is here! Indeed, the shops are very good, though my brother feels the want of a library greatly. So kind of Monsieur Casalis to have sent him those dreadful books.“She eyed the volumes as she spoke with mingled complacency and aversion. “That will be some hard work for me,” she said, turning to Cicely with a smile.
“For you!” exclaimed Cicely in surprise.
“Yes. I have to spell out all manner of things I don’t understand in the least for Ed—for my brother. He is not allowed to use his eyes in reading or writing at all yet. To tell you the truth, I was rather pleased when he was stopped short for want of these books. I am sure he is beginning to work too hard again; but of course I could not refuse Monsieur Casalis’s offer of them—so kind. I had the names down on a bit of paper to try for them at the bookseller’s when he called, you know. And of course it’s very worrying for a clever person like my brother to have to be dependent on any one so out-of-the-way stupid as I am.”
Cicely smiled. “I am sure you are very patient, at any rate,” she said.
“He is,” said Mrs. Crichton eagerly. “Would you believe it,” she went on, turning to some papers that lay on a side-table, “I have three times tried to make a clear copy of these notes and lists—it’s something botanical—and each time when he has just taken a peep at it from under his shade, poor fellow, just to make sure it was all right, he has found some perfectly horrible mistake that could not possibly be corrected—not to speak of my handwriting, which is fearful, as you see.” She held out the manuscript to Cicely. “They have to be in London the end of this week,” she went on in a tone of despair. “I was just setting to work at them again when you came in; but it’s no good. I shall never get them done.”
Cicely was examining the papers critically. “Your writing is perhaps rather too large for this sort of thing—” she began. “I should think it was—too large and too sprawly and too everything,” interrupted Mrs. Crichton. It’s dreadful, and so is my spelling. I never can spell correctly—Wednesday and business and spinach I always carry about with me in my pocket-book—not that the spelling matters for these things, as they are all in Latin.”