There was no chance of their ever agreeing—they never did even for one single hour.
"What are you thinking about, Pauline?" asked Miss Hastings one day.
Her young pupil had fallen into a reverie over "The History of the Peninsular War."
"I am thinking," she replied, "that, although France boasts so much of her military glory, England has a superior army; her soldiers are very brave; her officers the truest gentlemen."
"I am glad to hear that you think so. I have often wondered if you would take our guest as a sample."
Her beautiful lips curled with unutterable contempt.
"Certainly not. I often contrast him with a Captain Lafosse, who used to visit us in the Rue d'Orme, a grand man with a brown, rugged face, and great brown hands. Captain Langton is a coxcomb—neither more nor less, Miss Hastings."
"But he is polished, refined, elegant in his manner and address, which, perhaps, your friend with the brown, rugged face was not."
"We shall not agree, Miss Hastings, we shall not agree. I do not like Captain Langton."
The governess, remembering all that Sir Oswald wished, tried in vain to represent their visitor in a more favorable light. Miss Darrell simply looked haughty and unconvinced.