He's a clergyman. I don't
look like a clergyman's daughter, perhaps--and he thought I didn't
behave like one, especially after the housekeeper came. She's the kind
who calls herself 'a lady housekeeper.' I don't know if you have them
in America. She and I had rows--and that upset father. He didn't want
to get rid of her because she managed things splendidly--him and the
baby and the vicarage--and influential old ladies said she 'filled a
difficult position satisfactorily.' So it was simpler to get rid of
me. I went to boarding-school."
"Did you like that?"
"I loved it. After the first year I didn't go home even for the
holidays. Often I visited--girls were nice to me. But I didn't make
the most of my time--I'm furious with myself for that now. I learned
nothing--nothing, really, except the things I wanted to learn. And
those are always the ones that are least useful."
"I found that, too," said Peter, "at Yale."
"It didn't matter for you. You have the Balm of Gilead."
"That's my father's."
"What's his is yours, I suppose."
"He says so. But--we all have our own trouble. Mine's not living up to
my principles, or even knowing exactly what they are--being all in a
turmoil.
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