‘It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but otherwise there are certainly a thousand things which make me regret our native town. All the world here appears to me ill-bred (mal-elev\da\e). I find my habits considered ridiculous; if a girl out of your mill chances to come into the kitchen and find me in my jupon and camisole preparing dinner (for you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a single dish), she sneers. If I accept an invitation out to tea, which I have done once or twice, I perceive I am put quite into the background; I have not that attention paid me which decidedly is my due. Of what an excellent family are the G\da\erards, as we know, and the Moores also! They have a right to claim a certain respect, and to feel wounded when it is withheld from them. In Antwerp I was always treated with distinction; here one would think that when I open my lips in company I speak English with a ridiculous accent, whereas I am quite assured that I pronounce it perfectly.’

‘Hortense, in Antwerp we were known rich; in England we were never known but poor.’

‘Precisely, and thus mercenary are mankind. Again, dear brother, last Sunday, if you recollect, was very wet; accordingly, I went to church in my neat black sabots, objects one would not indeed wear in a fashionable city, but which in the country I have ever been accustomed to use for walking in dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up the aisle, composed and tranquil as I am always, four ladies and as many gentlemen laughed and hid their faces behind their Prayer-Books.’

‘Well, well! don’t put on the sabots again. I told you before I thought they were not quite the thing for this country.’

‘But, brother, they are not common sabots, such as the peasantry wear. I tell you, they are sabots noirs, tr\dg\es propres, tr\dg\es convenables. At Mons and Leuze— cities not very far removed from the elegant capital of Brussels—it is very seldom that the respectable people wear anything else for walking in winter. Let anyone try to wade the mud of the Flemish chauss\da\ees in a pair of Paris brodequins, on m’en dirait des nouvelles!’

‘Never mind Mons and Leuze, and the Flemish chauss\da\ees; do at Rome as the Romans do! and as to the camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure about them either. I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. Ask Caroline Helstone.’

‘Caroline! I ask Caroline? I consult her about my dress? It is she who on all points should consult me; she is a child.’

‘She is eighteen, or, at least, seventeen; old enough to know all about gowns, petticoats, and chaussures.’

‘Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat you, brother; do not make her of more consequence than she ought to be. At present she is modest and unassuming; let us keep her so.’

‘With all my heart. Is she coming this morning?’

‘She will come at ten, as usual, to take her French lesson.’

‘You don’t find that she sneers at you, do you?’

‘She does not; she appreciates me better than anyone else here; but then she has more intimate opportunities of knowing me; she sees that I have education, intelligence, manner, principles; all, in short, which belongs to a person well born and well bred.’

‘Are you at all fond of her?’

‘For fond—I cannot say; I am not one who is prone to take violent fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is the more to be depended on. I have a regard for her as my relative; her position also inspires interest, and her conduct as my pupil has hitherto been such as rather to enhance than diminish the attachment that springs from other causes.’