“Of _me_? Oh, I’ve no voice in the matter! Mademoiselle has unlimited sway in the school-room. Mademoiselle is a most excellent creature. I have unbounded confidence in her. She is quite superior to her position—came to me from the Comtesse de St. Velay—has written an admirable essay on education—her brother is professor of foreign literature at Tarbes.” “Perhaps Mademoiselle uses your name as a kind of authority.” “Very likely,” laughing sweetly; “_Mamma’s_ name is probably made free use of, in the school-room and nursery. I remember when, ‘I’ll tell your Mamma!’ was a terror to myself. Oh, we all go through these things in our turn. Poor, dear Arbell! there is excellent promise in her; but at present she is under a cloud. She lives in a world of her own, is proud and stubborn, and Mademoiselle says her spirit must be broken. It may be so, but I don’t wish to stand by and witness the operation.” “I am sorry to hear you say that,” cried I, anxiously, “for I think the operation so extremely hazardous, that it ought only to take place under the mother’s eye.” “It would affect me more,” answered she, very seriously, “than a surgical case.” “I can quite believe it,” replied I, with equal seriousness; “but possibly your sagacity and maternal affection united would enable you to discern that no such painful course was needed. If Arbell were a little more under your eye—” “My dear friend,” interrupted she, “Arbell is constantly under my eye already. Do you imagine I shut myself up from my children? No, no! that would indeed be neglecting a mother’s first duty. Dry recapitulation of lessons, indeed, and endless practising, fall exclusively to the superintendence of the governess; but Arbell always _learns_ her lessons and writes her exercises in the room with me, for hours every morning.” “I am heartily glad to hear it,” said I, with a sense of relief. “We lunch together—that is, they have their early dinner when we lunch,” pursued Mrs. Pevensey; “always except when we have friends. And though my afternoons are generally engaged in drives, and the children of course do not appear at the late dinner, they may always do so at dessert, and the younger ones always _do_. In the evenings, it is very much at Arbell’s option, or, at least, at Mademoiselle’s, whether they appear or not. Sometimes Arbell has lessons to prepare; sometimes she is engaged in her own devices; and really, I think they are more healthful and suitable for a young girl than large mixed parties, when silly people too often say silly things to children, so that frequently I am not sorry to miss her from the drawing-room. And now, good-by! I have paid an unconscionable visit; but there is no getting away from _you_. I am so glad you are—I _think_ you are better?” “Thank you, yes. Then I shall see Arbell the day after to-morrow?” “Undoubtedly, if she will come. At what hour? They dine at two.” “Shall I say eleven?”