ities, one of her present
pupils being a young lady of the Alhambra ballet who desires the
particular shade of cultivation that will match a new brougham. She
teaches Carlotta to spell, to hold a knife and fork, and corrects such
erroneous opinions as that the sky is an inverted bowl over a nice flat
earth, and that the sun, moon, and stars are a sort of electric light
installation, put into the cosmos to illuminate Alexandretta and the
Regent's Park. Her religious instruction I myself shall attend to, when
she is sufficiently advanced to understand my teaching. At present she
is a Mohammedan, if she is anything, and believes firmly in Allah. I
consider that a working Theism is quite enough for a young woman in her
position to go on with. In the afternoon she walks out with Antoinette.
Once she stole forth by herself, enjoyed herself hugely for a short
time, got lost, and was brought back thoroughly frightened by a
policeman. 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.
She was enchanted. It gave me the idea of setting her to read "Lamb's
Tales from Shakespeare." I was turning this over in my mind while she
chewed the cud of her enjoyment, when she suddenly asked whether I would
like to hear a Turkish story. She knew lots of nice, funny stories. I
bade her proceed. She curled herself up in her favourite attitude on the
sofa and began.

I did not allow her to finish that tale. Had I done so, I should
have been a monster of depravity