Sir Cradock Nowell, of course, had seen a good deal of what is called the world; but his knowledge of women was only enough to teach him the extent of that subject. He never was surprised much at anything they did; but he could not pretend to tell the reason of their doing it, even when they had any, of which he did not often suspect them. He believed that they would have their way, whenever they could, wherever, and by whatever means; that very few of them meant what they said, and none of them knew what they meant; that the primal elements, in the entire body feminine, were jealousy, impulsiveness, vanity, and contrariety. Georgie Corklemore soon found out that he had adopted this, the popular male opinion; and she did not once attempt to remove it, knowing, as she did, that nothing could be more favourable to her purposes. So she took up the part—which suited her as well as any, and enabled her to say many things which else would have given offence—the part of the soft, impulsive, warm–hearted, foolish woman, who is apt among men to become a great pet, if she happens to be good–looking. Eoa would gladly have yielded her prerogatives to Georgie, but Mrs. Corklemore was too wide awake to accept any one of them. “No, darling,” she replied, “for your own sake I will not. It is true that Uncle Cradock wishes it, and so, no doubt, do you; but you are bound to acquire all this social knowledge of which you have now so little; and how can you do so except by instruction and practice?” “Oh,” cried Eoa, firing up, “if Uncle Cradock wishes it, I am sure Iʼll leave it to you, and not be laughed at any longer. Iʼll go to him at once, and tell him so. And, as for being bound, I _wonʼt_ be bound to learn any nonsense I donʼt like. My papa was as wise as any of you, and a great deal better; and he never made such a fuss about rubbish as you do here.” “Stop, sweet child, stop a moment——” “I am not a sweet child, and I wonʼt stop. And another thing Iʼll tell you. I had made up my mind to it before this, mind—before you tried to turn me out of my place—and itʼs this. You may call me what you like, but I donʼt mean to call you ‘Cousin Georgie’ any longer. In the first place, I donʼt like you, and never shall as long as I live; for I never half believe you: and, in the next place, you are no cousin of mine; and social usage (or whatever it is you are always bothering me about) may require me to tell some stories, but not that one, I should fancy. Or, at any rate, I wonʼt do it.” “Very well,” replied Mrs. Corklemore, looking up from the softest of fancy–work, with the very sweetest of smiles; “then I shall be obliged, in self–defence, to address you as ‘Miss Nowell.’” “To be sure. Why shouldnʼt you?” “Well, it can be shown, perhaps, that you are entitled to the name. Only at first it will seem absurd when applied to a baby like you.”