"A governess will come here tomorrow at eleven o'clock," he said.
"She is a Mademoiselle Valle. She is accustomed to the educating
of young children. She will present herself for your approval.
Benby has done all the rest."
Feather flushed to her fine-spun ash-gold hair.
"What on earth can it matter!" she cried.
"It does not matter to you," he answered; "it chances--for the
time being--to matter to ME."
"Chances!" she flamed forth--it was really a queer little flame of
feeling. "That's it. You don't really care! It's a caprice--just
because you see she is going to be pretty."
"I'll own," he admitted, "that has a great deal to do with it."
"It has everything to do with it," she threw out. "If she had a
snub nose and thick legs you wouldn't care for her at all."
"I don't say that I do care for her," without emotion. "The situation
interests me. Here is an extraordinary little being thrown into
the world. She belongs to nobody. She will have to fight for her
own hand. And she will have to FIGHT, by God! With that dewy lure
in her eyes and her curved pomegranate mouth! She will not know,
but she will draw disaster!"
"Then she had better not be taught anything at all," said Feather.
"It would be an amusing thing to let her grow up without learning
to read or write at all. I know numbers of men who would like the
novelty of it. Girls who know so much are a bore.
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