"Nor between old Majolica and modern?"
"No."
"Nor between a Limoges enamel of the sixteenth century—everything good belongs to the sixteenth century, you must remember—and what they call Limoges now-a-days?"
"No."
"Ah, well, I think very few people do," said the major, resignedly. "But, at any rate"—speaking in a tone of encouragement—"you do know Sèvres and Dresden when you see them?—you could tell one of them from the other?"
"Really," Elizabeth replied, beginning to blush for her surpassing ignorance, "I am very sorry to have to confess it, but I don't believe I could."
The major softly unclasped his knees and leaned back in his chair, and sighed.
"But I could learn," suggested Elizabeth.
"Ah, so you can," he responded, brightening. "You can learn, of course. Will you learn? You can't think what a favour it would be to me if you would learn. Do promise me that you will."
"No, I will not promise. I should do it to please myself—and, of course, because it is a thing that Mrs. Duff-Scott takes an interest in," said Elizabeth.