Margot gave her queer, chiming chuckle which was like muffled Chinese bells. “Do I?”
“Pure New Jersey, honey. I used to. Mrs. Le Moyne used to guy me about it when I was a kid.”
“Miss Converse says ‘guy’ is slang,” Margot murmured.
“So it is, sister. We ought to go to England some summer pretty soon and let Miss Converse visit her folks.”
“I’d love to.... I’ve never been abroad,” she said, gravely stating it as though Mark mightn’t know, “And every one goes abroad, don’t they?”
“And what would you do abroad?”
She considered one pump and fretted the silver buckle with the other heel. “I’d see people, papa.”
“What people, sis?”
“Oh,” she said, “every one!”
It set him thinking that she lived pent in his house with her stiff, alien governess. She was infinitely safe, so, but she might be bored; he recalled hot and stagnant evenings on the farm when his mind had floated free of the porch steps and his father’s drawl into a paradise of black haired nymphs and illustrious warriors dressed from the engravings of the Centennial Shakespeare. Perhaps she should go to school? He consulted the governess, was surprised by her agreement, began to ask questions about schools for small girls.