strengthening of the muscles, and these she was advised to practise at home. She followed this counsel with so much assiduity that for the time being she entirely neglected her reading. Every morning, accompanied by Miss Pinchon, she visited the brothers for a lesson. The governess, seated on a hard, wooden chair, did not appear to be uncomfortable. A vague idea was gradually becoming concrete in Miss Pinchon's brain.
Consuelo's parents were by no means blind to the physical improvement in the child. Even Laura was now satisfied that some good might come out of this vagary.
If there were only a philosophy behind this, George chucklingly remarked to Campaspe one day, there would be no stopping it. All it needs is a philosophy . . . something about soul hunger being satisfied . . . and then every mother in New York would send her child down there.
I am not altogether certain, Campaspe suggested, that there is not a philosophy behind it.
Well, you know what I mean, the mystified George countered.
Yes, I know what you mean, was Campaspe's cryptic response.
While they were talking in the Everest drawing-room, Miss Pinchon crossed the room, ostensibly in search of a book. There was an expression on her face that no one had ever seen there before. No one, as a matter of fact, observed it now.
