There was Charlie Perigal, the boy with
the steely blue eyes and the pretty curls, with whom she had
quarrelled on the ground that he was in the habit of catching birds
in nasty little brick traps; also, because, when taxed with this
offence, he had defended his conduct and, a few moments later, had
attempted to stone a frog in her highly indignant presence.
Then there was Archie Windebank, whose father had the next place to
theirs; he was a fair, solemn boy, who treated her with an immense
deference; he used to blush when she asked him to join her in play.
The day before she had left for school, he had confessed his
devotion in broken accents; she had thought of him for quite a week
after she had left home. How absurd and trivial it all seemed, now
that she was to face the stern realities of life!
The next thing she recalled was the news of her father's ruin. This
calamity was more conveyed to her by the changed look in his face,
when she next saw him, than by anything else.
She had been, at once, taken away from the expensive school at which
she was being educated and had been sent to Brandenburg College,
then languishing in Hammersmith Terrace, while her father went to
live at Dinan, in Brittany, where he might save money in order to
make some sort of a start, which might ultimately mean a provision
for his daughter.
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