“A ’cademy! lor, think o’ that now,” said Hannah much impressed “an’ what do they larn yo’ now, furrin languages I’ll be bun.”
“Oh dear, yes! I can already relieve my feelings to my aunt in French that she cannot understand, and which I dare say, would puzzle Mons. Feugley, our French master, and I know some German words that sound so like swearing that Aunt Tinker gasps and grows pale when I use them, and I can tinkle on the piano and sing indifferently well for a screechy voice.”
“That’s nooan Gospel, my word,” put in Hannah, stoutly, and Lucy held up a reproving finger.
“And oh! tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Ascalon.”
“More furrin’ parts” groaned Hannah.
“I can, sh! speak low my voice, bend your heads and lend your ears.—I can dance!”
“Dance!” gasped Hannah.
“Yes, vraiment, which is French or German, I forget which, for of a verity and in good sooth—but they don’t know at home. It’s an extra extra, dancing is and Aunt Martha wouldn’t hear of it, and Uncle declared it was a vanity. But I learn all the same.”
“How do you manage it?” asked Lucy, with an admiring, caressing but wistful look at the beaming face.
“Why the other girls teach me, silly, in the bedroom. We dance in our nightdresses, when Fraulein has put out the gas. But it isn’t as nice, they say, as dancing with Professor Blanc, de Paris, vous savez.”