As the children grew up the money became less and less. They were sent
to Convent schools in France and Belgium, then to cheap schools in
England.
At length the final crash came, and the big, picturesque, rambling
house in Galway was sold, and they came to London with an infinitesimal
income partly derived from the grudging charity of relatives.
Arithelli cleaned the doorsteps and the kitchen stove, blackleaded the
grates and prepared the meals, which more often than not consisted only
of potatoes and tea.
Their mother, who hated all domestic work, and could never be induced
to see that their loss of money was due to her own extravagance,
retired to bed, where she spent her days in reading Plato in the
original, and writing charming French lyrics.
When Arithelli ran away she had gone straight to an old friend of her
mother's, the widow of an ambassador in Paris. She had made up her
mind to earn her own living. She would carve out for herself a career.
Having decided that riding was her most saleable accomplishment, she
had gone round to the riding school where the managers of the
Hippodromes of Vienna, Buda-Pesth and Barcelona waited to select
_equestriennes_.
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