awfully
sensible; something like Hebe and Maud mixed together, though to look at
her she's more like Anne. It's real goodness makes _her_ give in.

'He's getting old, dears, you know,' she says, 'and practically he's so
very good to us.'

I'm not quite sure that I understand quite what 'practically' means. I
think it's to do with the house--or the houses, for we've got two--and
money. For father, though he's so clever, wouldn't be _rich_ without
grandfather, I don't think. Perhaps it means presents too.
He--grandfather--isn't bad about presents. He never forgets birthdays or
Christmases--oh dear, no, he's got an _awfully_ good memory. Sometimes
_some_ of us would almost rather be worse off for presents if only he'd
forget some other things.

I'm like him about remembering too. I think my mind is rather tidy, as
well as my outside ways. I've got things very neat inside; I often feel
as if it was a cupboard, and I like to know exactly which shelf to go to
for anything I want. Mums says, 'That's all very well so far as it
goes, Jack, but don't stop short at that, or you will be in danger of
growing narrow-minded and self-satisfied.'

And I think I know what she means. There are some things now about Anne,
for all her tiresome ways, that I know are _grander_ than about me, or
even perhaps than about Hebe, only Hebe's sweetness makes up for
everything. But Anne would give anything in a moment to do any one a
good turn. And I--well, I'd think about it. I didn't at all like having
to tear up my nice pocket-handkerchief even the day we found the poor
little boy with his leg bleeding so dreadfully in the Park, and Anne had
hers in strips in a moment. And she'll lend her very best things to any
one of us. And she's got feelings I don't understand. Beautiful church
music makes her want so _dreadfully_ to be good, she says. I _like_ it
very much, but I don't think I feel it that way. I just feel nice and
quiet, and almost a little sleepy if it goes on a good while.

I was telling about our house in London. It's big, and rather grand in a
dull sort of way, but dark and gloomy. Long ago, when they built big
houses, I think they fancied it was the proper thing to make them dark.
It's nice in winter when it's shut up for the night, and the gas
lighted in the hall and on the staircases, and with the lamps in the
dining-room and drawing-rooms and library--it is very warm and
comfortable then, and though the furniture's old-fashione