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I wonder what the policeman thought of her? The
rest of the day she looks at picture-books and works embroidery.
She is making an elaborate bed-spread which will give her
harmless occupation for a couple of years.
For an hour every evening, when I am at home, she comes into the
drawing-room and drinks coffee with me and listens to my
improving conversation. I take this opportunity to rebuke her
for faults committed during the day, or to commend her for
especial good behaviour. I also supplement the instruction in
things in general that is given her by the excellent Miss Griggs.
Oddly enough I am beginning to look forward to these evening
hours. She is so docile, so good-humoured, so spontaneous. If
she has a pain in her stomach, she says so with the most engaging
frankness. Sometimes I think of her only, in Pasquale's words,
as a bundle of fascination, and forget that she has no soul.
Nearly always, however, something happens to remind me. She
loves me to tell her stories. The other night I solemnly related
the history of Cinderella.


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