style="font-size:15px;"> Mrs. Cassilis was dressed, for her part, in robes which it had taken the highest talent of Regent Street to produce. Her age was about thirty. Her cold face shone for a moment with the wintery light of a forced smile, but her eyes did not soften, as she took Phillis's hand.
Phillis's pulse beat a little faster, in spite of her courage.
Art face to face with Nature. The girl just as she left her nunnery, ignorant of mankind, before the perfect woman of the world. They looked curiously in each other's eyes. Now the first lesson taught by the world is the way to dissemble. Mrs. Cassilis said to herself, "Here is a splendid girl. She is not what I expected to see. This is a girl to cultivate and bring out – a girl to do one credit." But she said aloud —
"Miss Fleming? I am sure it is. You are exactly the sort of a girl I expected."
Then she sat down and looked at her comfortably.
"I am the wife of your late guardian's nephew – Mr. Gabriel Cassilis. You have never met him yet; but I hope you will very soon make his acquaintance."
"Thank you," said Phillis simply.
"We used to think, until Mr. Dyson died and his preposterous will was read, that his eccentric behaviour was partly your fault. But when we found that he had left you nothing, of course we felt that we had done you an involuntary wrong. And the will was made when you were a mere child, and could have no voice or wish in the matter."
"I had plenty of money," said Phillis; "why should poor Mr. Dyson want to leave me any more?"
Quite untaught. As if any one could have too much money!
"Forty thousand pounds a year! and all going to Female education. Not respectable Female education. If it had been left to Girton College, or even to finding bread-and-butter, with the Catechism and Contentment, for charity girls in poke bonnets, it would have been less dreadful. But to bring up young ladies as you were brought up, my poor Miss Fleming – "
"Am I not respectable?" asked Phillis, as humbly as a West Indian nigger before emancipation asking if he was not a man and a brother.
"My dear child, I hear you cannot even read and write."
"That is quite true."
"But everybody learns to read and write. All the Sunday school children even know how to read and write."
"Perhaps that is a misfortune for the Sunday school children," Phillis calmly observed; "it would very likely be better for the Sunday school children were they taught more useful things." Here Phillis was plagiarising – using Mr. Dyson's own words.
"At least every one in society knows them. Miss Fleming, I am ten years older than you, and, if you will only trust me, I will give you such advice and assistance as I can."
"You are very kind," said Phillis, with a little distrust, of which she was ashamed. "I know that I must be very ignorant, because I have already seen so much, that I never suspected before. If you will only tell me of my deficiencies I will try to repair them. And I can learn reading and writing any time, you know, if it is at all necessary."
"Then let us consider. My poor girl, I fear you have to learn the very rudiments of society. Of course you are quite ignorant of things that people talk about. Books are out of the question. Music and concerts; art and pictures; china – perhaps Mr. Dyson collected?"
"No."
"A pity. China would be a great help; the opera and theatres; balls and dancing; the rink – "
"What is the rink?" asked Phillis.
"The latest addition to the arts of flirtation and killing time. Perhaps you can fall back upon Church matters. Are you a Ritualist?"
"What is that?"
"My dear girl" – Mrs. Cassilis looked unutterable horror as a thought struck her – "did you actually never go to church?"
"No. Mr. Dyson used to read prayers every day. Why should people go to church when they pray?"
"Why? why? Because people in society all go; because you must set an example to the lower orders. Dear me! It is very shocking! and girls are all expected to take such an interest in religion. But the first thing is to learn reading."
She had been carrying a little box in her hands all this time, which she now placed on the table and opened. It contained small wooden squares, with gaudy pictures pasted on them.
"This is a Pictorial Alphabet: an introduction to all education. Let me show you how to use it. What is this?"
She held up one square.
"It is a very bad picture, abominably coloured, of a hatchet or a kitchen chopper."
"An axe, my dear – A, x, e. The initial letter A is below in its two forms. And this?"
"That is worse. I suppose it is meant for a cow. What a cow!"
"Bull, my dear – B, u, l, l, bull. The initial B is below."
"And is this," asked Phillis, with great contempt, "the way to learn reading? A kitchen chopper stands for A, and a cow with her legs out of drawing stands for B. Unless I can draw my cows for myself, Mrs. Cassilis, I shall not try to learn reading."
"You can draw, then?"
"I draw a little," said Phillis. "Not so well, of course, as girls brought up respectably."
"Pardon me, my dear Miss Fleming, if I say that sarcasm is not considered good style. It fails to attract."
Good style, thought Phillis, means talking so as to attract.
"Do let me draw you," said Phillis. Her temper was not faultless, and it was rising by degrees, so that she wanted the relief of silence. "Do let me draw you as you sit there."
She did not wait for permission, but sketched in a few moments a profile portrait of her visitor, in which somehow the face, perfectly rendered in its coldness and strength, was without the look which its owner always thought was there – the look which invites sympathy. The real unsympathetic nature, caught in a moment by some subtle artist's touch, was there instead. Mrs. Cassilis looked at it, and an angry flush crossed her face, which Phillis, wondering why, noted.
"You caricature extremely well. I congratulate you on that power, but it is a dangerous accomplishment – even more dangerous than the practice of sarcasm. The girl who indulges in the latter at most fails to attract; but the caricaturist repels."
"Oh!" said Phillis, innocent of any attempt to caricature, but trying to assimilate this strange dogmatic teaching.
"We must always remember that the most useful weapons in a girl's hands are those of submission, faith and reverence. Men hate – they hate and detest – women who think for themselves. They positively loathe the woman who dares turn them into ridicule."
She looked as if she could be one of the few who possess that daring.
"Fortunately," she went on, "such women are rare. Even among the strong-minded crew, the shrieking sisterhood, most of them are obliged to worship some man or other of their own school."
"I don't understand. Pardon me, Mrs. Cassilis, that I am so stupid. I say what I think, and you tell me I am
