Thackeray was no more than a name to Elizabeth; he had written a book called “Vanity Fair,” which was not at all a nice book, but Scott rivalled Dickens in desirableness. Then there was Louisa Alcott and Charlotte Yonge, and L. T. Meade, and a host of well-meaning women who wrote books for girls especially designed, it seemed, to induce a morbidly sentimental frame of mind. Miss Arden labelled them all “pretty tales.”

Mr. Hengist gave Elizabeth the “History of Henry Esmond” on her fourteenth birthday, but Miss Arden intercepted it and said gently:

“I think there’s plenty of time yet for that, Mr. Hengist.”

Mr. Hengist said, Stuff and nonsense! very gruffly, but Elizabeth was not allowed to read “Esmond.”

She had friends, not many because most other girls were at school and had other interests, but a few, of whom Miss Arden approved, and Mr. Hengist.

She thought how she had loved Mr. Hengist when she was seven years old. She only liked him now, and she thought him queer sometimes and brusque. Aunt Anne was not fond of Mr. Hengist; she was polite to him because he was Father’s friend, but she remarked occasionally to Elizabeth that he was a very strange man. He called Elizabeth Prunes and Prisms, which hurt her dignity, and he advised her not to be a little humbug when she told him how miserable the death of Paul had made her feel.

“My dear good child,” he said, polishing his eyeglasses on a large silk handkerchief, “for heaven’s sake cultivate some independence of thought! Don’t repeat your aunt’s views; let’s hear your own. They’re the only ones that are worth having from you.”

Elizabeth thought he could not have heard Aunt Anne say that it was unbecoming for a child of her age to air her opinions. Either you were silent, or you agreed with what your elders said. She looked at Mr. Hengist and wondered why he said such funny things.

“Tell me what you really think,” he said. “What about Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness?”

“Oh, they’re very clever, aren’t they?” she answered at once. “Of course they’re not sad, like Nell and her grandfather.”

“Why should they be?” he retorted, which was quite incomprehensible.

To Lawrence he said more, forcibly and often, but Lawrence wore a superior smile and replied that it was very easy for a bachelor to propound theories on a girl’s education.

“And it’s easy for a married man to shelve his responsibilities on to a spinster’s shoulders”: Mr. Hengist said quickly.

Nothing disturbed Lawrence. He raised his eyebrows and still smiled.

“My dear Hengist, are you insinuating that Anne is incapable of bringing up Elizabeth?” he asked banteringly.

“Yes—no, I’m not insinuating, I’m saying it point-blank. Good God, Lawrence, don’t you know that Elizabeth is being hopelessly mismanaged?”