‘She behaves pretty well at lessons?’

‘To me she behaves very well; but you are conscious, brother, that I have a manner calculated to repel over-familiarity, to win esteem, and to command respect. Yet, possessed of penetration, I perceive clearly that Caroline is not perfect; that there is much to be desired in her.’

‘Give me a last cup of coffee, and while I am drinking it amuse me with an account of her faults.’

‘Dear brother, I am happy to see you eat your breakfast with relish, after the fatiguing night you have passed. Caroline, then, is defective; but, with my forming hand and almost motherly care, she may improve. There is about her an occasional something—a reserve, I think—which I do not quite like, because it is not sufficiently girlish and submissive; and there are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her nature which put me out. Yet she is usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtful, indeed, sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall make her uniformly sedate and decorous, without being unaccountably pensive. I ever disapprove what is not intelligible.’

‘I don’t understand your account in the least. What do you mean by “unsettled hurries,” for instance?’

‘An example will, perhaps, be the most satisfactory explanation. I sometimes, you are aware, make her read French poetry by way of practice in pronunciation. She has, in the course of her lessons, gone through much of Corneille and Racine, in a very steady, sober spirit, such as I approve. Occasionally she showed, indeed, a degree of languor in the perusal of those esteemed authors, partaking rather of apathy than sobriety; and apathy is what I cannot tolerate in those who have the benefit of my instructions; besides, one should not be apathetic in studying standard works. The other day I put into her hands a volume of short fugitive pieces. I sent her to the window to learn one by heart, and when I looked up I saw her turning the leaves over impatiently, and curling her lip, absolutely with scorn, as she surveyed the little poems cursorily. I chid her. “Ma cousine,” said she, “tout cela m’ennuie \dg\a la mort.” I told her this was improper language. “Dieu!” she exclaimed. “Il n’y a donc pas deux lignes de po\du\esie dans toute la litt\da\erature fran\cd\aise?” I inquired what she meant. She begged my pardon with proper submission. Erelong she was still; I saw her smiling to herself over the book; she began to learn assiduously. In half an hour she came and stood before me, presented the volume, folded her hands, as I always require her to do, and commenced the repetition of that short thing by Ch\da\enier, “La Jeune Captive.” If you had heard the manner in which she went through this, and in which she uttered a few incoherent comments when she had done, you would have known what I meant by the phrase “unsettled hurry.” One would have thought Ch\da\enier was more moving than all Racine and all Corneille. You, brother, who have so much sagacity, will discern that this disproportionate preference argues an ill-regulated mind; but she is fortunate in a preceptress. I will give her a system, a method of thought, a set of opinions; I will give her the perfect control and guidance of her feelings.’

‘Be sure you do, Hortense; here she comes. That was her shadow passed the window, I believe.’

‘Ah, truly! She is too early—half an hour before her time. My child, what brings you here before I have breakfasted?’

This question was addressed to an individual who now entered the room—a young girl, wrapped in a winter mantle, the folds of which were gathered with some grace round an apparently slender figure.

‘I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and how Robert was, too. I was sure you would be both grieved by what happened last night. I did not hear till this morning; my uncle told me at breakfast.’

‘Ah! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with us? Your uncle sympathizes with us?’

‘My uncle is very angry; but he was with Robert, I believe—was he not? Did he not go with you to Stilbro’ Moor?’