This was all very well for the parrot and the poodle, but for the child it was another affair. Her education was of a peculiar description, and undoubtedly resembled a meal, where the sweets are served before the joints. "La petite Verona" danced delightfully, acted with extraordinary intelligence, and sang piquant little songs in her shrill childish voice--such were her accomplishments. She was dainty, and pretty, and graceful; in short, she was Madame de Godez's doll--and idol. But, low be it whispered, she could hardly read simple words, a pen and needle were strangers to her tiny hands; geography and arithmetic were but hideous names, and yet the child could declaim a tragedy, play the mandoline, and converse fluently in three languages. It seemed a sheer miracle that this petted little creature should have remained unspoiled, but her sense of truth and honour appeared to be inborn and innate, and she had none of the greedy, selfish, elfish ways of solitary and applauded children. In short, her little heart was in its right place, her feelings were deep and sincere. She was attached to her _bonne_, her auntie, and the parrot; to one of the waiters at the "Hotel Bristol," and to Martin, the _concierge_ at "the Ambassadors" in Rome. But she and Polo, the poodle, had never really fraternised, being performers, public favourites, and necessarily--rivals. The child was by no means perfect. Her temper was hot, and it must be frankly admitted that her manner to those she considered her inferiors was occasionally haughty and disdainful; her pride was stern and unbending, for, although she had no petty conceit, she took the personality of Miss Verona Chandos with a gravity that was ludicrous. A sudden and complete change in the child's life may be attributed to one cause, and the name of that cause was, "scarlatina." She caught the complaint, and had it badly, thereby occasioned a serious commotion, as well as much inconvenience, in a certain smart hotel, and subsequent heavy expense to her auntie. A soft-voiced, dove-eyed matron pointed out to this lady that a girl of Verona's age had still a whole gamut of diseases to run through--measles, mumps, whooping cough--this would necessarily lead to continual annoyance, quarantine, and enforced seclusion. "But _what_ am I to do?" demanded Madame in her staccato key. "Send her to England without delay. It is fully time she was properly educated, and mixed with other children." "Oh, but she is so clever!" "True, in a way, but she cannot read or write. Surely, dear friend, you do not wish Verona to grow up an ignoramus and a laughing-stock?" "No, no, no," ejaculated Madame, "but I could not send her to school. I hated school myself." Lady Wallsend stared; it seemed such a singular and grotesque idea that Madame de Godez should ever have been at school.