“By the way, the pretender is here; I mean—if it be not a bull to say it—the real pretender, Count Pracontal.”
“Count Pracontal de Bramleigh, George,” said Julia, correcting him. “It is the drollest mode of assuming a family name I ever heard of.”
“What is he like?” asked Ellen.
“Like a very well-bred Frenchman of the worst school of French manners: he has none of that graceful ease and that placid courtesy of the past period, but he has abundance of the volatile readiness and showy smartness of the present day. They are a wonderful race, however, and their smattering is better than other men's learning.”
“I want to see him,” said Augustus.
“Well,” broke in L'Estrange, “Lady Augusta writes to me to say he wants to see you.”
“What does Lady Augusta know of him?”
“Heaven knows,” cried Julia; “but they are always together; their rides over the Campagna furnish just now the chief scandal of Rome. George, you may see, looks very serious and rebukeful about it; but, if the truth were told, there's a little jealousy at the root of his morality.”
“I declare, Julia, this is too bad.”
“Too true, also, my dear George. Will you deny that you used to ride out with her nearly every evening in the summer, rides that began at sunset and ended—I was always asleep when you came home, and so I never knew when they ended.”