For Boo, a true daughter of her time, could write correctly all languages except her own.
This letter was painful to its recipient. He sat looking gloomily out at the glades of the park where wild winds from St. George’s Channel were swaying the great trees and driving the Faldon river into scurrying clouds of brown foam.
“I’ll take it to him,” he thought. He had learned to know that his uncle Ronnie was a rock of refuge. He got up as well as he could for being embraced by all his dogs at once, and knocked down by a Newfoundland twice in excess of adoration.
He found Hurstmanceaux at the other end of the house engaged in reading his own correspondence of the morning.
“If you please is this true?”
“Is what true?”
“That my mother is to marry.”
He held out his sister’s letter.
“I don’t know if it means that. If it don’t mean that I can’t tell what it means,” he added despondently.
“Your mother marries, yes,” said Hurstmanceaux, taking the note, “and this letter says you are to go to Paris. Do you wish to go?”