“But you know French, aunt,” said Maurice wickedly; “and I am afraid Gyp, George Sand, and Belot, are quite as bad, if not worse, than the Latin poet.”
“Maurice,” replied Mrs. Dengelton severely, unable to parry this attack, “remember your cousin is in the room.”
“I beg your pardon, aunt.”
“And now, Count Caliphronas,” said the good lady, thus appeased, “suppose you sing us one of your songs.”
“I am afraid it will shock you,” replied the Count slyly.
“Oh dear no! none of us know Greek.”
“That is hardly complimentary to me, who have given up all my life to the study of the Greek poets.”
“I don’t mean you, Rector, but the young people.”
“Oh, I do not mind singing,” said Caliphronas, going to the piano; “if the words of my songs were translated, you would find them very harmless. They only contain the language of love known to all the world.”
“Will I play for you?” asked Crispin, looking up from the poem he was reading to Eunice.