Bram found Miss Cornthwaite kind and easy to get on with. She was a straightforward, practical woman, on the far side of thirty, and this grave, simple-mannered young man, with the observant gray eyes, interested and pleased her. She tried to intercept the glances of horror which Mrs. Cornthwaite occasionally threw at him, and the terrible explanations with which the elder lady condescendingly favored him.
Thus, when the Riviera was mentioned, Mrs. Cornthwaite threw him the good-natured aside, audible all over the room—
“The shore of the Mediterranean, you know, the sea that lies between France and Italy, and—and those places!”
And when some one used the word “bizarre,” Mrs. Cornthwaite smiled at Bram again, and again whispered loudly—
“Quaint, odd, you know. It’s a French word.”
“Mamma, you needn’t explain. Mr. Elshaw speaks better French than we do, I’m quite sure,” said Hester good-naturedly enough, though she had better have made no comment.
But Bram said at once, as if grateful to the old lady—
“No, Miss Cornthwaite, I can read and write French pretty well, but I can’t speak it. And when I hear a French word spoken I don’t at once catch its meaning.”
“There, you see, Hester, I was right. I knew Mr. Elshaw would be glad of a little help,” said Mrs. Cornthwaite triumphantly.
“Very glad, indeed,” assented Bram, quickly interposing as Hester was about to continue the argument with her mother.