“What is vulgar?” I asked.
“She thinks sage and onions is vulgar,” said Irais languidly; “but it isn’t, it is very good.” She got up and walked to the piano, and, sitting down, began, after a little wandering over the keys, to sing.
“Do you play?” I asked Minora.
“Yes, but I am afraid I am rather out of practice.”
I said no more. I know what that sort of playing is.
When we were lighting our bedroom candles Minora began suddenly to speak in an unknown tongue. We stared. “What is the matter with her?” murmured Irais.
“I thought, perhaps,” said Minora in English, “you might prefer to talk German, and as it is all the same to me what I talk—”
“Oh, pray don’t trouble,” said Irais. “We like airing our English—don’t we, Elizabeth?”
“I don’t want my German to get rusty though,” said Minora; “I shouldn’t like to forget it.”
“Oh, but isn’t there an English song,” said Irais, twisting round her neck as she preceded us upstairs, “‘’Tis folly to remember, ’tis wisdom to forget’?”