They had been sitting in the house together the whole of one wet day; and as Mark was to dine in Barchester with the dean, they had had dinner early, eating with the children almost in their laps. It is so that ladies do, when their husbands leave them to themselves. It was getting dusk towards evening, and they were still sitting in the drawing-room, the children now having retired, when Mrs. Robarts for the fifth time since her visit to Hogglestock began to express her wish that she could do some good to the Crawleys,—to Grace Crawley in particular, who, standing up there at her father’s elbow, learning Greek irregular verbs, had appeared to Mrs. Robarts to be an especial object of pity. “I don’t know how to set about it,” said Mrs. Robarts. Now any allusion to that visit to Hogglestock always drove Lucy’s mind back to the consideration of the subject which had most occupied it at the time. She at such moments remembered how she had beaten Puck, and how in her half-bantering but still too serious manner she had apologized for doing so, and had explained the reason. And therefore she could not interest herself about Grace Crawley as vividly as she should have done. “No; one never does,” she said. “I was thinking about it all that day as I drove home,” said Fanny. “The difficulty is this: What can we do with her?” “Exactly,” said Lucy, remembering the very point of the road at which she had declared that she did like Lord Lufton very much. “If we could have her here for a month or so and then send her to school;—but I know Mr. Crawley would not allow us to pay for her schooling.” “I don’t think he would,” said Lucy, with her thoughts far removed from Mr. Crawley and his daughter Grace. “And then we should not know what to do with her; should we?” “No; you would not.” “It would never do to have the poor girl about the house here, with no one to teach her anything. Mark would not teach her Greek verbs, you know.” “I suppose not.” “Lucy, you are not attending to a word I say to you, and I don’t think you have for the last hour. I don’t believe you know what I am talking about.” “Oh, yes, I do—Grace Crawley; I’ll try and teach her if you like, only I don’t know anything myself.” “That’s not what I mean at all, and you know I would not ask you to take such a task as that on yourself. But I do think you might talk it over with me.” “Might I? very well; I will. What is it? Oh, Grace Crawley—you want to know who is to teach her the irregular Greek verbs. Oh dear, Fanny, my head does ache so: pray don’t be angry with me.” And then Lucy, throwing herself back on the sofa, put one hand up painfully to her forehead, and altogether gave up the battle. Mrs. Robarts was by her side in a moment. “Dearest Lucy, what is it makes your head ache so often now? you used not to have those headaches.” “It’s because I’m growing stupid: never mind. We will go on about poor Grace. It would not do to have a governess, would it?”