Stephanie's development was watched with tender, half-fearful curiosity by Cleland.
As usual, two separate columns were necessary to record the varied traits so far apparent in her. These traits Cleland noted in the book devoted to memoranda concerning the child, writing them as follows:
Inclined to self-indulgence. Easily moved to impulsive
Consequently, a trifle self-sacrifice.
selfish at times. Ardent in her affections;
Over-sensitive and likely loyal to friendship; and
to exaggerate. essentially truthful.
Very great talent latent: Indignation quickly excited
possibly histrionic. by any form of cruelty or
Anger, when finally treachery. Action likely to
aroused, likely to lead to be immediate without regard
extremes. for personal considerations.
Generous with her possessions.
So far he could discover nothing vicious in her, no unworthy inherited instincts beyond those common to young humans, instincts supposed to be extirpated by education.
She was no greedier than any other healthy child, no more self-centred; all her appetites were normal, all her inclinations natural. She had a good mind, but a very human one, fairly balanced but sensitive to emotion, inclination, and impulse, and sometimes rather tardy in readjusting itself when logic and reason were required to regain equilibrium.
But the child was more easily swayed by gratitude than by any other of the several human instincts known as virtues.
So she grew toward adolescence, closely watched by Cleland, good-naturedly tolerated by Jim, worshipped by Janet, served by Meacham with instinctive devotion—the only quality in him not burnt out in his little journeys through hell.
There were others, too, in the world, who remembered the child. There was her aunt, who came once a month and brought always an expensive present, over the suitability of which she and Cleland differed to the verge of rudeness. But they always parted on excellent terms. And there was Chiltern Grismer, who sat sometimes for hours in his office, thinking about the child and the fortune which threatened her.
Weeks, adhering to one another, became months; months totalled years—several of them, recorded so suddenly that John Cleland could not believe it.
He had arrived at that epoch in the life of man when the years stood still with him: when he neither felt himself changing nor appeared to grow older, though all around him he was constantly aware of others aging. Yet, being always with Stephanie, he could not notice her rapid development, as he noted the astonishing growth of his son when the boy came home after brief absences at school.