“Very well, mamma,” was the quiet answer.
“You don't seem very eager to know for whither,” said Stocmar, smiling. “Are all places alike to you?”
“Pretty much so, sir,” said she, in the same voice.
“You were scarcely prepared for so much philosophy, I 'm sure, Mr. Stocmar,” said Mrs. Morris, sneeringly. “Pray confess yourself surprised.”
“Call it ignorance, mamma, and you'll give it the right name. What do I know of the world, save from guide and road books? and, from the little I have gleaned, many a village would be pleasanter to me than Paris.”
“More philosophy, sir. You perceive what a treasure of wisdom is about to be intrusted to your charge.”
“Pray bear that in mind, sir,” said Clara, with a light laugh; “and don't forget that though the casket has such a leaden look, it is all pure gold.”
Never was poor Stocmar so puzzled before. He felt sailing between two frigates in action, and exposed to the fire of each, though a non-combatant; nor was it of any use that he hauled down his flag, and asked for mercy,—they only loaded and banged away again.
“I must say,” cried he at last, “that I feel very proud of my ward.”
“And I am charmed with my guardian,” said she, courtesying, with an air that implied far more of grace than sincerity in its action.