Catharine’s mother came with her on a Saturday afternoon, but left in the evening. At half-past eight there were prayers. The girls filed into the drawing-room, sat round in a ring, of which the Misses Ponsonby formed a part, but with a break of about two feet right and left, the servants sitting outside near the door: a chapter was read, a prayer also read, and then, after a suitable pause, the servants rose from their knees, the pupils rose next, and the Misses Ponsonby last; the time which each division, servants, pupils, and Ponsonbys, remained kneeling being graduated exactly in proportion to rank. A procession to the supper-room was then formed. Catharine found herself at table next to Miss Arden, with a spotless napkin before her, with silver forks and spoons, and a delicately served meal of stewed fruits, milk-puddings, bread-and-butter, and cold water. Everything was good, sweet, and beautifully clean, and there was enough. At half-past nine, in accordance with the usual practice, one of the girls read from a selected book. On Saturday a book, not exactly religious, but related to religion as nearly as possible as Saturday is related to Sunday, was invariably selected. On this particular Saturday it was Clarke’s “Travels in Palestine.” Precisely as the chock struck ten the volume was closed and the pupils went to bed.
“I am sure I shall like you,” observed Miss Arden, as they were undressing. “The girl who was here before was a brute, so dull and so vulgar. I hope you will like me.”
“I hope so too.”
“It’s dreadful here: so different to my mother’s house in Devonshire. We have a large place there near Torquay—do you know Torquay? And I have a horse of my own, on which I tear about during the holidays, and there are boats and sailing matches, and my brothers have so many friends, and I have all sorts of little affairs. I suppose you’ve had your affairs. Of course you won’t say. We never see a man here, except Mr. Cardew. Oh, isn’t he handsome? He’s only a parson, but he’s such a dear; you’ll see him to-morrow. I can’t make him out: he’s lovely, but he’s queer, so solemn at times, like an owl in daylight. I’m sure he’s well brought up. I wonder why he went into the church: he ought to have been a gentleman.”
“But is he not a gentleman?
“Oh, yes, of course he’s a gentleman, but you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“There, now, you are one of those horrid creatures, I know you are, who never will understand, and do it on purpose. It is so aggravating.”
“Well, but you said he was not a gentleman, and yet that he was a gentleman.”
“You are provoking. I say he is a gentleman—but don’t some gentlemen keep a carriage?—and his father is in business. Isn’t that plain? You know all about it as well as I do.”