"No, not you, that's true enough; you are too just, too kind;—it is a pity that Madeline is not more like you."
"My dear Walter," said Madeline, "what is the matter? You accuse me of what? being attentive to a man whom it is impossible to hear without attention!"
"There!" cried Walter passionately; "you confess it; and so for a stranger,—a cold, vain, pedantic egotist, you can shut your ears and heart to those who have known and loved you all your life; and—and—"
"Vain!" interrupted Madeline, unheeding the latter part of Walter's address.
"Pedantic!" repeated her father.
"Yes! I say vain, pedantic!" cried Walter, working himself into a passion. What on earth but the love of display could make him monopolize the whole conversation?—What but pedantry could make him bring out those anecdotes and allusions, and descriptions, or whatever you call them, respecting every old wall or stupid plant in the country?
"I never thought you guilty of meanness before," said Lester gravely.
"Meanness!"
"Yes! for is it not mean to be jealous of superior acquirements, instead of admiring them?"
"What has been the use of those acquirements? Has he benefited mankind by them? Shew me the poet—the historian—the orator, and I will vield to none of you; no, not to Madeline herself in homage of their genius: but the mere creature of books—the dry and sterile collector of other men's learning—no—no. What should I admire in such a machine of literature, except a waste of perseverance?—And Madeline calls him handsome too!"