"What you have got to do is to see how well you can look after Mrs. Cox’s baby." "I’ll do my best, I really will," said Jane-Anne, "and it’ll be rather fun to wheel it about, and I shall look very proud and stand-off like Mrs. Methuen’s Nannie. I expect people will admire me very much and wonder whose nurse I am." "That is possible," Mr. Wycherly politely acquiesced. "Shall I have to make the beds that morning, sir?" "That, my dear child, is your good aunt’s province, not mine." "Master, dear—whenever you speak of aunt to me, you say she’s good, or worthy, or excellent, or sensible—do you say those nice things about me when I’m not there? Do you say ’my excellent Jane-Anne’ when you talk about me to Mrs. Methuen? I hope you do—or ’that most sensible girl’—do you?" "How do you know I ever talk about you at all to Mrs. Methuen?" Jane-Anne looked rather foolish for a moment, then brightened as she remarked: "But you must to know all about Mrs. Cox’s baby and Norland Nurses, and that. I’m sorry, though, that the young gentlemen have all gone down; I’d like them to have seen me wheeling the pram." "My dear child," exclaimed Mr. Wycherly with real consternation in his voice. "You surely don’t suppose that a well-bred undergraduate would be aware of the existence of a little girl wheeling a perambulator." "They’re aware of _my_ existence, anyway, master, dear. I heard one say one day: ’Look what hair that flapper’s got.’" "A most impertinent and ill-bred young man. I hope you felt very angry." "Angry?" she repeated in a surprised voice. "Oh, no; I was pleased he should admire my hair. It is very long, you know." Mr. Wycherly groaned, but he said nothing more, only registering a mental vow to the effect that nothing would induce him to allow Jane-Anne to wheel anybody’s perambulator once the men came up again. "But she’ll be safely at school then," he reflected, "and there will be an end of these ridiculous schemes." Mrs. Dew discussed the question with her niece during their supper in the housekeeper’s room. "I don’t fancy the notion much, myself," she said. "A nurse as is worth having for a nurse is born so, and I don’t see as any institution will either make or mar her. Bein’ a fine lady with someone else to do your nurseries’d suit you well enough, I’ve no doubt, but whether you’d ever learn to do _your_ part is more than mortal can say." "Aunt, what do you do with a baby if it cries?" "Turn it face downwards on your knee an’ pat it gentle—ten to one it’s got wind, poor little soul, and that’ll break it up. Many’s the time I’ve held you that way an’ you starin’ at the carpet with those great eyes of yours as good as gold. But you won’t have much nursing to do—it’s wheelin’ that you’ll be doin’, an’ mind as you don’t let the wheel go over the kerb. Whatever it is you’re doin’, Jane-Anne, for mercy’s sake think about that thing, and don’t go dreamin’ of poetry books and such foolhardy nonsense."