“Am I a simpleton, aunt?” inquired Lucy, in the tone of an indifferent person seeking knowledge.
“Not you,” replied this oblivious lady. “You know a great deal more than most girls of your age. To be sure, girls that have been at a fashionable school generally manage to learn one or two things you have no idea of.”
“Naturally.”
“As you say—he! he! But you make up for it, my dear, in other respects. If the gentlemen take you for a pane of glass, why, all the better; meantime, shall I tell you your real character? I have only just discovered it myself.”
“Oh, yes, aunt, tell me my character. I should so like to hear it from you.”
“Should you?” said the other, a little satirically; “well, then, you are an INNOCENT FOX.”
“Aunt!”
“An in-no-cent fox; so run and get your work-box. I want you to run up a tear in my flounce.”
Lucy went thoughtfully for her workbox, murmuring ruefully, “I am an innocent fox—I am an in-nocent fox.”
She did not like her new character at all; it mortified her, and seemed self-contradictory as well as derogatory.