Perhaps this is not a very exalted type of education; it certainly
seems to fulfil its purpose very wonderfully in making them alert,
inquisitive, eager, and without any shadow of priggishness. It is
established as a principle that it is stupid not to know things,
and still more stupid to try and make other people aware that you
know them; and the apologies with which Maggie translated a French
menu at a house where we stayed with the children the other day
were delightful to behold.

I am very anxious that they should not be priggish, and I do not
think they are in any danger of becoming so. I suppose I rather
skim the cream of their education, and leave the duller part to the
governess, a nice, tranquil person, who lives in the village, the
daughter of a previous vicar, and comes in in the mornings. I don't
mean that their interest and alertness does not vary, but they are
obedient and active-minded children, and they prefer their lessons
with me so much that it has not occurred to them to be bored. If
they flag, I don't press them. I tell them a story, or show them
pictures. While I write these words in my armchair, they are
sitting at the table, writing an account of something I have told
them. Maggie lays down her pen with a sigh of satisfaction. "There,
that is beautiful! But I dare say it is not as good as yours,
Alec." "Don't interrupt me," says Alec sternly, "and don't push
against me when I'm busy." Maggie looks round and concludes that I
am busy too. In a minute, Alec will have done, and then I shall
read the two pieces aloud; then we shall criticise them
respectfully. The aim is to make them frankly recognise the good
points of each other's compositions as well as the weak points, and
this they are very ready to do.