“Amiable? oh, very amiable!”
“And not a vaurien?”
“Tant soit peu,” said Hamilton, laughing, “but not half so bad as your cousin Raimund.”
“Is he much older than you?”
“Several years; but may I ask why my brother has so suddenly become an object of interest to you?”
“He does not interest me in the least,” began Hildegarde, but at that moment, Hamilton, whose hand had been wandering through the entangled skeins of wool in her basket, suddenly drew forth a small book which had been concealed beneath them; her first impulse was to prevent his opening it, but she changed her mind, and though blushing deeply, continued to work without uttering a syllable.
Hamilton turned over the leaves for some minutes in silence. “Who recommended you to read the works of Georges Sand?” he asked, as he placed the book beside her on the table.
“Oscar; he told me they were interesting, and extremely well written.”
“They are both the one and the other, and yet nothing would have induced me to advise you to read them, especially this volume. I am surprised you did not yourself perceive that it was not suited for a person of your age or——”
“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently. “Mamma wishes me to read French that I may not forget the language; the best writers of the day are, of course, the best for that purpose, and Oscar says all French novels are more or less of this description. He told me that I need not have any scruples, for that these works were written by a woman, and might therefore be read by one.”