were the strictures on deportment. For it must be confessed, that
Lady Caergwent, though neatly and prettily made, with delicate little
feet and hands, and a strong upright back, was a remarkably awkward
child; and the more she was lectured, the more ungraceful she made
herself--partly from thinking about it, and from fright making her
abrupt, partly from being provoked. She had never been so ungainly
at Oldburgh; she never was half so awkward in the school-room, as she
would be while taking her cup of tea from Lady Barbara, or handing
the butter to her governess. And was it not wretched to be ordered
to do it again, and again, and again, (each time worse than the last-
-the fingers more crooked, the elbow more stuck out, the shoulder
more forward than before), when there was a letter in Sylvia's
writing lying on the table unopened?

And whereas it had been the fashion at St. James's Parsonage to
compare Kate's handing her plate to a chimpanzee asking for nuts, it
was hard that in Bruton Street these manners should be attributed to
the barbarous country in which she had grown up! But that, though
Kate did not know it, was very much her own fault. She could never
be found fault with but she answered again. She had been scarcely
broken of replying and justifying herself, even to Mr. Wardour, and
had often argued with Mary till he came in and put a sudden sharp
stop to it; and now she usually defended herself with "Papa says--"
or "Mary says--" and though she really thought she spoke the truth,
she made them say such odd things, that it was no wonder Lady Barbara
thought they had very queer notions of education, and that her niece
had nothing to do but to unlearn their lessons. Thus:

"Katharine, easy-chairs were not meant for little girls to lounge
in."