“But the last time we put her in a school you distinctly told me that that sort of thing was no good to her!”

“I know,” she sighed. “It’s so hard to know what to do. I can never be sure—” For a dreary moment she contemplated the perplexities of school circulars and advertisements, all of a confusing sameness, so that you made your choice blindly, like flipping a coin, and hoped for the best. “But after all, I do think a good strict school, with regular hours, and—and a lights-out bell, and—and outdoor games, and discipline—”

“How old is she?” he asked suddenly.

“Why, Alan! Your own daughter! She’ll be eighteen in September, you know that as well as I do!”

“That’s old for a school, isn’t it? I might have her tutored for Girton, I suppose—”

“Yes, Girton might do—all those nice Cambridge boys,” agreed Aunt Effie vaguely. “And then there was that Swiss school I told you about the last time we talked schools—the one that teaches them skiing, along with all the usual things.”

“Well, I don’t know, Effie—”

“I think perhaps the Swiss school would be better in the circumstances. She might be a little older than most of the pupils there, but she’s always been too old for her age, and I’m sure she needs young companionship.”

“The best way to get that is not to be the eldest of a group,” he remarked with astounding penetration. “Wasn’t that place pretty expensive?”

“You said it was at the time, but this is a special case, Alan. I do think that to get her right away from England for a while—”

“Very well, I’ll think about it.” This was an old dodge, to end a discussion he had tired of. It seldom worked any more.

“But we must do something at once, Alan, there’s no time to go on thinking about it! I’ve an idea that Swiss school’s catalogue is upstairs in my desk—with pictures of the dormitories, and—yes, I’m sure I could lay my hand on it in no time—”

“Yes, all right, I’ll look at it tomorrow, my dear—”

“Well, I could just run up to my room now and fetch it—”