“Well, exquisitely beautiful,—the perfection of gracefulness,—and highly accomplished.”
“She'd not say any such thing; she'd not describe me like a governess; she 'd probably say I was too demonstrative,—that's a phrase in vogue just now,—and hint that I was a little vulgar. But I assure you,” added she, seriously, “I'm not so when I speak French. It is a stupid attempt on my part to catch up what I imagine must be English frankness when I talk the language that betrays me into all these outspoken extravagances. Let us talk French now.”
“You 'll have the conversation very nearly to yourself then,” said Beecher, “for I'm a most indifferent linguist.”
“Well, then, I must ask you to take my word for it, and believe that I 'm well bred when I can afford it. But your sister,—do tell me of her.”
“She is 'très grande dame,' as you would call it,” said Beecher; “very quiet, very cold, extremely simple in language, dresses splendidly, and never knows wrong people.”
“Who are wrong people?”
“I don't exactly know how to define them; but they are such as are to be met with in society, not by claim of birth and standing, but because they are very rich, or very clever, in some way or other,—people, in fact, that one has to ask who they are.”
“I understand. But that must apply to a pretty wide circle of this world's habitants.”
“So it does. A great part of Europe, and all America,” said Beecher, laughing.
“And papa and myself, how should we come through this formidable inquiry?”