John, not fired by enthusiasm, but intent on working out his scheme of indemnification, gave up an hour or so a day to her mental culture. He was not an unskilful teacher, but her undeveloped mind had to begin at the beginning of things. She learned painfully. The great world had revealed itself to her with blinding suddenness. For months she was simply stupid.
“How are things shaping?” asked Herold one day. He had been lunching at Kilburn, and Unity, feeling, that she was expected to be on her very best behaviour before him, had been more than usually awkward and ungenteel. This time a fish-bone had stuck in her throat.
John frowned. “You saw. Shapelessly. It's hopeless.”
“You 're absolutely wrong,” said Herold. “There are vast possibilities in Unity.”
“Not one,” said John.
“Are you trying the right way? Do you remember what the old don said when he came across two undergraduates vainly persuading the college tortoise to eat lettuce: 'Gentlemen, are you quite sure you are trying at the right end?' ”
“What do you mean?”
“Can't you try by the way of the heart?”
John flared up. “You 're talking rot. The child has n't had a harsh word since she has been here. I'm not honey-tongued as a rule, but to her I've been a female saint with a lily in my hand. And my aunt, with all her maddening ways, would not hurt the feelings of a black beetle.”
“Quite so,” said Herold. “But all that's negative. Why can't you try something positive? Give Unity love, and you 'll be astonished at the result.”